THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


H.    DE    BALZAC 


THE    COMEDIE    HUMAINE 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

"THE  PAIR  OF  MUTCKACKKUS "    (p.    Ill)       .  .  .         Frontispiece. 

PAGE 
THK    RUE    DE    NORMANDIE 1 35 

A    COLD   THRILL    RAN    THRi'UCH    MME.    CIBOT  ....       221 

"MADAME    CIBOT,    I    BELIEVE?" 273 

FRAISIER    READ    THE CURIOUS    DOCUMENT  ....       357 

Drawn  by  W.  Boucher. 


PREFACE. 

One  of  the  last  and  largest  of  Balzac's  great  works — the 
very  last  of  them,  if  we  except  "La  Cousine  Bette,"  to 
which  it  is  pendant  and  contrast — "La  Cousin  Pons"  has 
always  united  suffrages  from  very  different  classes  of  admirers. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  not  "disagreeable,"  as  the  common 
euphemism  has  it,  and  as  "La  Cousine  Bette"  certainly  is. 
In  the  second,  it  cannot  be  accused  of  being  a  berquinade, 
as  those  who  like  Balzac  best  when  he  is  doing  moral  rag- 
picking  are  apt  to  describe  books  like  "  Le  Medecin  de 
Campagne  "  and  "  Le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee,"  if  not  even  like 
"Eugenie  Grandet."  It  has  a  considerable  variety  of  in- 
terest ;  its  central  figure  is  curiously  pathetic  and  attractive, 
even  though  the  curse  of  something  like  folly,  which  so  often 
attends  Balzac's  good  characters,  may  a  little  weigh  on  him. 
It  would  be  a  book  of  exceptional  charm  even  if  it  were 
anonymous,  or  if  we  knew  no  more  about  the  author  than  we 
know  about  Shakespeare. 

As  it  happens,  however,  "Le  Cousin  Pons"  has  other 
attractions  than  this.  In  the  first  place,  Balzac  is  always 
great — perhaps  he  is  at  his  greatest — in  depicting  a  mania, 
a  passion,  whether  the  subject  be  pleasure  or  gold-hunger  or 
parental  affection.  Pons  has  two  manias,  and  the  one  does 
not  interfere  with,  but  rather  helps,  the  other.  But  this  would 
be  nothing  if  it  were  not  that  his  chief  mania,  his  ruling 
passion,  is  one  of  Balzac's  own.  For,  as  we  have  often  had 
occasion  to  notice,  Balzac  is  not  by  any  means  one  of  the 
great  impersonal  artists.  He  can  do  many  things  ;  but  he  is 
never  at  his  best  in  doing  any  unless  his  own  personal  in- 
terests, his  likings  and  hatreds,  his  sufferings  and  enjoyments, 
are  concerned.  He  was  a  kind  of  actor-manager  in  his 
Comedie  Humaine;  and  perhaps,  like  other  actor-managers, 

(ix) 


X  PREFACE. 

he  took  rather  disproportionate  care  of  the  parts  which  he 
played  himself. 

Now,  he  was  even  more  desperate  as  a  collector  and  fancier 
of  bibelots  than  he  was  as  a  speculator;  and  while  the  one 
mania  was  nearly  as  responsible  for  his  pecuniary  troubles  and 
his  need  to  overwork  himself  as  the  other,  it  certainly  gave 
him  more  constant  and  more  comparatively  harmless  satisfac- 
tions. His  connoisseurship  has,  of  course,  been  questioned — 
one  connoisseur  would  be  nothing  if  he  did  not  question  the 
competence  of  another,  if  not  of  all  others.  It  seems  certain 
that  Balzac  frequently  bought  things  for  v^hat  they  were  not ; 
and  probable  that  his  own  acquisitions  went,  in  his  own  eyes, 
through  that  succession  of  stages  which  Charles  Lamb  (a  sort 
of  Cousin  Pons  in  his  way  too)  described  inimitably.  His 
pictures,  like  John  Lamb's,  were  apt  to  begin  as  Raphaels, 
and  end  as  Carlo  Marattis.  Balzac  too,  like  Pons,  was  even 
more  addicted  to  bric-a-brac  than  to  art  proper;  and  after 
many  vicissitudes,  he  and  Madame  Hanska  seem  to  have  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  together  a  very  considerable,  if  also  a  very 
miscellaneous  and  unequal,  collection  in  the  house  in  the  Rue 
du  Paradis,  the  contents  of  which  were  dispersed  in  part 
(though,  I  believe,  the  Rothschild  who  bought  it,  bought 
most  of  them  too)  not  many  years  ago.  Pons,  indeed,  was 
too  poor,  and  probably  too  queer,  to  indulge  in  one  fancy 
which  Balzac  had,  and  which,  I  think,  all  collectors  of  the 
nobler  and  more  poetic  class  have,  though  this  number  may 
not  be  large.  Balzac  liked  to  have  new  beautiful  things  as 
well  as  old — to  have  beautiful  things  made  for  him.  He  was 
an  unwearied  customer,  though  not  an  uncomplaining  one,  of 
the  great  jeweler  Froment  Meurice,  whose  tardiness  in  carry- 
ing out  his  behests  he  pathetically  upbraids  in  more  than  one 
extant  letter. 

Therefore,  Balzac  "did  more  than  sympathize,  he  felt" — 
as  it  has  been  well  put — with  Pons  in  the  bric-a-brac  matter; 
and  it  would  appear  that  he  did  so  likewise  in   that  of  music. 


PREFACE.  xi 

though  we  have  rather  less  direct  evidence.  This  other 
sympathy  has  resulted  in  the  addition  to  Pons  himself  of  the 
figure  of  Schmucke,  a  minor  and  more  parochial  figure,  but 
good  in  itself,  and  very  much  appreciated,  I  believe,  by  fellow 
melomanes. 

It  is  with  even  more  than  his  usual  art  that  Balzac  has  sur- 
rounded these  two  originals — these  "  humorists,"  as  our  own 
ancestors  would  have  called  them — with  figures  much,  very 
much,  more  of  the  ordinary  world  than  themselves.  The 
grasping  worldliness  of  \\iQ.  parvenu  family  of  Camusot  in  one 
degree,  and  the  greed  of  the  portress,  Madame  Cibot,  on  the 
other,  are  admirably  represented;  the  latter,  in  particular, 
must  always  hold  a  very  high  place  among  Balzac's  greatest 
successes.  She  is,  indeed,  a  sort  of  companion  sketch  to 
Cousine  Bette  herself  in  a  still  lower  rank  of  life,  representing 
the  diabolical  in  woman ;  and  perhaps  we  should  not  wrong 
the  author's  intentions  if  we  suspected  that  Diane  de  Mau- 
frigneuse  has  some  claims  to  make  up  the  trio  in  a  sphere 
even  more  above  Lisbeth's  than  Lisbeth's  is  above  Madame 
Cibot's  own. 

Different  opinions  have  been  held  of  the  actual  "  bric-d- 
bracery''''  of  this  piece — that  is  to  say,  not  of  Balzac's  com- 
petence in  the  matter,  but  of  the  artistic  value  of  his  intro- 
duction of  it.  Perhaps  his  enthusiasm  does  a  little  run  away 
with  him;  perhaps  he  gives  us  a  little  too  much  of  it,  and  avails 
himself  too  freely  of  the  license,  at  least  of  the  temptation, 
to  digress  which  the  introduction  of  such  persons  as  Elie 
Magus  affords.  And  it  is  also  open  to  any  one  to  say  that 
the  climax,  or  what  is  in  effect  the  climax,  is  introduced  some- 
what too  soon ;  that  the  struggle,  first  over  the  body  and 
then  over  the  property  of  Patrocliis-Pons,  is  inordinately  spun 
out;  and  that,  even  granting  the  author's  mania,  he  might 
have  utilized  it  better  by  giving  us  more  of  the  harmless  and 
ill-treated  cousin's  happy  hunts,  and  less  of  the  disputes  over 
his  accumulated   quarry.     This,   however,   means  simply  the 


xii  PREFACE. 

old,  and  generally  rather  impertinent,  suggestion  to  the  artist 
that  he  shall  do  with  his  art  something  different  from  that 
which  he  has  himsef  chosen  to  do.  It  is,  or  should  be,  suffi- 
cient that  "  Le  Cousin  Pons  "  is  a  very  agreeable  book,  more 
/  pathetic,   if  less   "grimy,"   than  its  companion,   full  of   its 

author's  idiosyncrasy,  and  characteristic  of  his  genius.  It 
may  not  be  uninteresting  to  add  that  "  Le  Cousin  Pons"  was 
originally  called  "  Les  Deux  Musiciens,"  or  "  Le  Parasite," 
and  that  the  change,  which  is  a  great  improvement,  was 
due  to  the  instances  of  Madame  Hanska. 

(For  bibliography,  see  the  Preface  to  '•  La  Cousine  Bette.") 

G.  S. 


THE   POOR  PARENTS 

(Z<?j  Parents  Fauvres). 

COUSIN   BETTY. 

PART  II. 

The  words  spoken  by  Lisbeth  :  "  He  begs  of  his  former  mis- 
tresses," haunted  the  baroness  all  night.  Like  sick  men  given 
over  by  the  physicians,  who  have  recourse  to  quacks,  like  men 
who  have  fallen  into  the  lowest  Dantesque  circle  of  despair,  or 
drowning  creatures  who  mistake  a  floating  stick  for  a  hawser, 
she  ended  by  believing  in  the  baseness  of  which  the  mere  idea 
had  horrified  her;  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  apply 
for  help  to  one  of  those  odious  women. 

Next  morning,  without  consulting  her  children  or  saying  a 
word  to  anybody,  she  went  to  see  Mademoiselle  Josepha 
Mirah,  prima  donna  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Music,  to  find 
or  to  lose  the  hope  that  had  gleamed  before  her  like  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp.  At  midday  the  great  singer's  waiting-maid  brought 
her  in  the  card  of  the  Baronne  Hulot,  saying  that  this  person 
was  waiting 'at  the  door,  having  asked  whether  mademoiselle 
could  receive  her. 

'•'Are  the  rooms  done?  " 

''Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"And  the  flowers  fresh  ?  " 

"Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"  Just  tell  Jean  to  look  around  and  see  that  everything  is  as 
it  should  be  before  showing  the  lady  in,  and  treat  her  with  the 
greatest  respect.  Go,  and  come  back  to  dress  me — I  must 
look  my  very  best." 

She  went  to  study  herself  in  the  long  glass. 

"  Now,  to  put  our  best  foot  forward  !  "  said  she  to  herself. 

(1) 


2  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

"Vice  under  arms  to  meet  virtue!     Poor  woman,  v/hat  can 
she  want  of  me?     I  cannot  bear  to  see 

"  '  The  noble  victim  of  outrageous  fortune! '  " 

And  she  sang  through  the  famous  aria  as  the  maid  came  in 
again. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  girl,  "the  lady  has  a  nervous  trem- 
bling  " 

"  Offer  her  some  orange-flower  water,  some  rum,  some 
soup ' ' 

"I  did,  mademoiselle  ;  but  she  declines  everything,  and 
says  it  is  an  infirmity,  a  nervous  complaint " 

"'  Where  is  she?  " 

"  In  the  big  drawing-room." 

"Well,  make  haste,  child.  Give  me  my  smartest  slippers, 
the  dressing-gown  embroidered  by  Bijou,  and  no  end  of  lace 
frills.  Do  my  hair  in  a  way  to  astonish  a  woman.  This 
woman  plays  a  part  against  mine ;  and  tell  the  lady — for  she  is 
a  real,  great  lady,  my  girl ;  nay,  more,  she  is  what  you  will 
never  be,  a  woman  whose  prayers  can  rescue  souls  from  your 
purgatory — tell  her  I  was  in  bed,  as  I  was  playing  last  night, 
but  that  I  am  getting  up." 

The  baroness,  shown  into  Josepha's  handsome  drawing- 
room,  did  not  note  how  long  she  was  kept  waiting  there, 
though  it  was  a  long  half-hour.  This  room,  entirely  redeco- 
rated even  since  Josepha  had  had  the  house,  was  hung  with 
silk  in  purple  and  gold  color.  The  luxury  which  fine  gentle- 
men were  wont  to  lavish  on  \.\i€\x petiies  maisons  (little  houses), 
the  scenes  of  their  profligacy,  of  which  the  remains  still  bear 
witness  to  the  follies  from  which  they  were  so  aptly  named, 
was  displayed  to  perfection,  thanks  to  modern  inventiveness, 
in  the  four  rooms  opening  into  each  other,  where  the  warm 
temperature  was  maintained  by  a  system  of  hot-air  pipes  with 
invisible  openings. 

The  baroness,  quite  bewildered,  examined  each  work  of  art 


COUSIN  BETTY.  3 

with  the  greatest  amazement.  Here  she  found  the  fortunes 
accounted  for  that  melt  in  the  crucible  under  which  pleasure 
and  vanity  feed  the  devouring  flames.  This  woman,  who  for 
twenty-six  years  had  lived  among  the  dead  relics  of  imperial 
magnificence,  whose  eyes  were  accustomed  to  carpets  pat- 
terned with  faded  flowers,  rubbed  gilding,  silks  as  forlorn  as 
her  heart,  half  understood  the  powerful  fascinations  of  vice  as 
she  studied  its  results.  It  was  impossible  not  to  wish  to  pos- 
sess these  beautiful  things,  these  admirable  works  of  art,  the 
creation  of  the  unknown  talent  which  abounds  in  Paris  in  our 
day  and  produces  treasures  for  all  Europe.  Each  thing  had 
the  novel  charm  of  unique  perfection.  The  models  having 
been  destroyed,  every  vase,  every  figure,  every  piece  of  sculp- 
ture was  the  original.  This  is  the  crowning  grace  of  modern 
luxury.  To  own  the  thing  which  is  not  vulgarized  by  the  two 
thousand  wealthy  citizens  whose  notion  of  luxury  is  the  lavish 
display  of  the  splendors  that  stores  can  supply  is  the  stamp  of 
true  luxury — the  luxury  of  the  fine  gentlemen  of  the  day,  the 
shooting  stars  of  the  Paris  firmament. 

As  she  examined  the  flower-stands,  filled  with  the  choicest 
exotic  plants,  mounted  in  chased  brass  and  inlaid  in  the  style 
of  Boulle,  the  baroness  was  scared  by  the  idea  of  the  wealth 
in  this  apartment.  And  this  impression  naturally  shed  a 
glamour  over  the  person  round  whom  all  this  profusion  was 
heaped.  Adeline  imagined  that  Josepha  Mirah — whose  por- 
trait by  Joseph  Bridau  was  the  glory  of  the  adjoining  boudoir 
— must  be  a  singer  of  genius,  a  Malibran,  and  she  expected  to 
see  a  real  star,  a  true  ''  lionne."  She  was  sorry  she  had  come. 
But  she  had  been  prompted  by  so  strong  and  so  natural  a  feel- 
ing, by  such  purely  disinterested  devotion,  that  she  collected 
all  her  courage  for  the  interview.  Beside,  she  was  about  to 
satisfy  her  urgent  curiosity,  to  see  for  herself  what  the  charm 
was  of  this  kind  of  women,  that  they  could  extract  so  much 
gold  from  the  miserly  ore  of  Paris  mud. 

The  baroness  looked  at  herself  to  see  if  she  were  not  a  blot 


4  THE  FOOR   PARENTS. 

on  all  this  splendor ;  bat  she  was  well  dressed  in  her  velvet 
gown,  with  a  little  cape  trimmed  with  beautiful  lace,  and  her 
velvet  bonnet  of  the  same  shade  was  becoming.  Seeing  her- 
self still  as  imposing  as  any  queen,  always  a  queen  even  in  her 
fall,  she  reflected  that  the  dignity  of  sorrow  was  a  match  for 
the  dignity  of  talent. 

At  last,  after  much  opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  she  saw 
Josepha.  The  singer  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  Allori's 
"Judith,"  which  dwells  in  the  memory  of  all  who  have  ever 
seen  it  in  the  Pitti  palace,  near  the  door  of  the  grand  salon. 
She  had  the  same  haughty  mien,  the  same  fine  features,  black 
hair  simply  knotted,  and  a  yellow  wrapper  with  little  embroid- 
ered flowers,  exactly  like  the  brocade  worn  by  the  immortal 
homicide  conceived  of  by  Bronzino's  nephew. 

"  Madame  la  Baronne,  I  am  quite  overwhelmed  by  the 
honor  you  do  me  in  coming  here,"  said  the  singer,  resolved 
to  play  her  part  as  a  great  lady  with  a  grace. 

She  pushed  forward  an  easy-chair  for  the  baroness  and  seated 
herself  on  a  stool.  She  discerned  the  faded  beauty  of  the 
woman  before  her,  and  was  filled  with  pity  as  she  saw  her 
shaken  by  the  nervous  palsy  that,  on  the  least  excitement, 
became  convulsive.  She  could  read  at  a  glance  the  saintly 
life  described  to  her  of  old  by  Hulot  and  Crevel ;  and  she  not 
only  ceased  to  think  of  a  contest  with  her,  she  humiliated 
herself  before  a  superiority  she  appreciated.  The  great  artist 
could  admire  what  the  courtesan  laughed  to  scorn. 

*'  Mademoiselle,  despair  brought  me  here.  It  reduces  us  to 
any  means " 

A  look  in  Josepha's  face  made  the  baroness  feel  that  she 
had  wounded  the  woman  from  whom  she  hoped  for  so  much, 
and  she  looked  at  her.  Her  beseeching  eyes  extinguished  the 
flash  in  Josepha's  ;  the  singer  smiled.  It  was  a  wordless  dia- 
logue of  pathetic  eloquence. 

"It  is  now  two  years  and  a  half  since  Monsieur  Hulot  left 
his  family,  and  1  do  not  know  where  to  find  him,  though  I 


COUSIN  BETTY.  5 

know  that  he  lives  in  Paris,"  said  the  baroness  with  emotion. 
"A  dream  suggested  to  me  the  idea — an  absurd  one  perhaps 
— that  you  may  have  interested  yourself  in  Monsieur  Hulot. 
If  you  could  enable  me  to  see  him — oh  !  mademoiselle,  I 
would  pray  heaven  for  you  every  day  as  long  as  I  live  in  this 
world " 

Two  large  tears  in  the  singer's  eyes  told  what  her  reply 
would  be. 

"  Madame,"  said  she,  "  I  have  done  you  an  injury  without 
knowing  you  ;  but,  now  that  I  have  the  happiness  of  seeing 
in  you  the  most  perfect  image  of  virtue  on  earth,  believe  me 
I  am  sensible  of  the  extent  of  my  fault  ;  I  repent  sincerely, 
and  believe  me,  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  remedy  it  !  " 

She  took  Madame  Hulot's  hand,  and  before  the  lady  could 
do  anything  to  hinder  her,  she  kissed  it  respectfully,  even 
humbling  herself  to  bend  one  knee.  Then  she  rose,  as  proud 
as  when  she  stood  on  the  stage  in  the  part  of  Mathilde,  and 
rang  the  bell. 

"Go  on  horseback,"  said  she  to  the  manservant,  "  and  kill 
the  horse  if  you  must,  to  find  little  Bijou,  Rue  Saint-Maur-du- 
Temple,  and  bring  her  here.  Put  her  into  a  coach  and  pay 
the  coachman  to  come  at  a  gallop.  Do  not  lose  a  moment — 
or  you  lose  your  place. 

"  Madame,"  she  went  on,  coming  back  to  the  baroness, 
and  speaking  to  her  in  respectful  tones,  "  you  must  forgive 
me.  As  soon  as  the  Due  d'Herouville  became  my  protector, 
I  dismissed  the  baron,  having  heard  that  he  was  ruining  his 
family  for  me.  What  more  could  I  do?  In  an  actress'  career 
a  protector  is  indispensable  from  the  first  day  of  her  appear- 
ance on  the  boards.  Our  salaries  do  not  pay  half  our  ex- 
penses ;  we  must  have  a  temporary  husband.  I  did  not  value 
Monsieur  Hulot,  who  took  me  away  from  a  rich  man,  a  con- 
ceited idiot.  Old  Crevel  would  undoubtedly  have  married 
me " 

"So  he  told  me,"  said  the  baroness,  interrupting  her. 


6  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

''Well,  then,  you  see,  madame,  I  might  at  this  day  have 
been  an  honest  woman,  with  only  one  legitimate  husband  !  " 

"You  have  many  excuses,  mademoiselle,"  said  Adeline, 
*'  and  God  will  take  them  into  account.  But,  for  my  part, 
far  from  reproaching  you,  I  came,  on  the  contrary,  to  make 
myself  your  debtor  in  gratitude " 

"  Madame,  for  nearly  three  years  I  have  provided  for  Mon- 
sieur le  Baron's  necessities " 

"You?"  interrupted  the  baroness,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"Oh,  what  can  I  do  for  you?     I  can  only  pray " 

"I  and  Monsieur  le  Due  d'Herouville,"  the  singer  said, 

"a  noble  soul,  a  true  gentleman "  and  Josepha  related 

the  settling  and  "  marriage  "  of  Monsieur  Thoul. 

"  And  so,  thanks  to  you,  the  baron  has  wanted  nothing  ?  " 

"We  have  done  our  best  to  that  end,  madame." 

"  And  where  is  he  now?  " 

"  About  six  months  ago.  Monsieur  le  Due  told  me  that  the 
baron,  known  to  the  notary  by  the  name  of  Thoul,  had  drawn 
all  the  eight  thousand  francs  that  were  to  have  been  paid  to 
him  in  fixed  sums  once  a  quarter,"  replied  Josepha.  "We 
have  heard  no  more  of  the  baron,  neither  I  nor  Monsieur 
d'Herouville.  Our  lives  are  so  full,  we  artists  are  so  busy, 
that  I  really  have  no  time  to  run  after  old  Thoul.  As  it  hap- 
pens, for  the  last  six  months,  Bijou,  who  works  for  me — his — 
what  shall  I  say ?  ' ' 

"  His  mistress,"  said  Madame  Hulot. 

"  His  mistress,"  repeated  Josepha,  "  has  not  been  here. 
Mademoiselle  Olympe  Bijou  is  perhaps  divorced.  Divorce  is 
common  in  the  thirteenth  arrondissement." 

Josepha  rose,  and  foraging  among  the  rare  plants  in  her 
stands,  made  a  charming  bouquet  for  Madame  Hulot.  whose 
expectations,  it  may  be  said,  were  by  no  means  fulfilled.  Like 
those  worthy  people  who  take  men  of  genius  to  be  a  sort  of 
monsters,  eating,  drinking,  walking,  and  speaking  unlike  other 
people,  the  baroness  had  hoped  to  see  Josepha  the  opera  singer. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  '    7 

the  witch,  the  amorous  and  amusing  courtesan  ;  she  saw  a  calm 
and  well-mannered  woman,  with  the  dignity  of  talent,  the 
simplicity  of  an  actress  who  knows  herself  to  be  at  night  a 
queen,  and  also,  better  than  all,  a  woman  of  the  town  whose 
eyes,  attitude,  and  demeanor  paid  full  and  ungrudging  homage 
to  the  virtuous  wife,  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  of  the  sacred 
hymn,  and  who  was  crowning  her  sorrows  with  flowers,  as  the 
madonna  is  crowned  in  Italv. 

"Madame,"  said  the  footman,  reappearing  at  the  end  of 
half  an  hour,  "  Madame  Bijou  is  on  her  way,  but  you  are  not 
to  expect  little  Olympe.  Your  needlewoman,  niadame,  is 
settled  in  life;  she  is  married " 

"  More  or  less  ?  "  said  Josepha. 

"  No,  madame,  really  married.  She  is  at  the  head  of  a  very 
fine  business ;  she  has  married  the  owner  of  a  large  and  fash- 
ionable store,  on  which  they  have  spent  millions  of  francs,  on 
the  Boulevard  des  Italiens ;  and  she  has  left  the  embroidery 
business  to  her  sister  and  mother.  She  is  Madame  Grenou- 
ville.     The  fat  tradesman " 

"A  Crevel?" 

"Yes,  madame,"  said  the  man,  "Well,  he  has  settled 
thirty  thousand  francs  a  year  on  Mademoiselle  Bijou  by  the 
marriage  articles.  And  her  elder  sister,  they  say,  is  going  to 
be  married  to  a  rich  butcher." 

"Your  business  looks  rather  hopeless,  I  am  afraid,"  said 
Josepha  to  the  baroness.  "Monsieur  le  Baron  is  no  longer 
where  I  lodged  him." 

Ten  minutes  later  Madame  Bijou  was  announced.  Josepha 
very  prudently  placed  the  baroness  in  the  boudoir,  and  drew 
the  portiere  over  the  door. 

"  You  would  scare  her,"  said  she  to  Madame  Hulot.  "  She 
would  let  nothing  out  if  she  suspected  that  you  were  interested 
in  the  information.  Leave  me  to  catechise  her.  Hide  there, 
and  you  will  hear  everything.  It  is  a  scene  that  is  played 
quite  as  often  in  real  life  as  on  the  stage " 


8  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

*'Wen,  Mother  Bijou,"  she  said  to  an  old  woman  dressed 
in  tartan  stuff,  and  who  looked  like  a  charwoman  in  her  Sunday 
best,  "  so  you  are  all  very  happy?     Your  daughter  is  in  luck." 

"Oh,  happy?  As  for  that !  My  daughter  gives  us  a  hun- 
dred francs  a  month,  while  she  rides  in  a  carriage  and  feeds 
off  silver  plate — she  is  a  millionary,  is  my  daughter  !  Olympe 
might  have  lifted  me  above  labor.  To  have  to  work  at  my 
age?     Is  that  being  good  to  me?" 

"She  ought  not  to  be  ungrateful,  for  she  owes  her  beauty 
to  you,"  replied  Josepha ;  "but  why  did  she  not  come  to  see 
me  ?  It  was  I  who  placed  her  in  ease  by  settling  her  with  my 
uncle." 

"  Yes,  madame,  with  old  Monsieur  Thoul,  but  he  is  so  very 
old  and  broken " 

"But  what  have  you  done  with  him?  Is  he  with  you? 
She  was  very  foolish  to  leave  him  ;  he  is  worth  millions  now." 

"Heaven  above  us!"  cried  the  mother.  "What  did  I 
tell  her  when  she  behaved  so  badly  to  him,  and  he  as  mild  as 
milk,  poor  old  fellow  ?  Oh  !  didn't  she  just  give  it  him  hot? 
Olympe  was  perverted,  madame  !  " 

"But  how?" 

"  She  got  to  know  a  claqueur,  madame,  saving  your  presence, 
a  man  paid  to  clap,  you  know,  the  grand-nephew  of  an  old 
mattress-picker  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Marceau.  This  good- 
for-nought,  as  all  your  good-lonking  fellows  are,  paid  to  make 
a  piece  go,  is  the  cock-of-the-walk  out  on  the  Boulevard  du 
Temple,  where  he  works  up  the  new  plays,  and  takes  care  that 
the  actresses  get  a  reception,  as  he  calls  it.  First,  he  has  a 
good  breakfast  in  the  morning  ;  then,  before  the  play,  he  dines, 
to  be  '  up  to  the  mark,'  as  he  says  ;  in  short,  he  is  a  born  lover 
of  billiards  and  drams.  '  But  that  is  not  following  a  trade,' 
as  I  said  to  Olympe." 

"It  is  a  trade  men  follow,  unfortunately,"  said  Josepha. 

"Well,  the  rascal  turned  Olympe's  head,  and  he,  madame, 
did  not  keep  good  company — when  Ttell  you  he  was  very 


COUSIN  BETTY.  9 

near  being  nabbed  b)'  the  police  in  a  tavern  where  thieves 
meet.  'Wever,  Monsieur  Braulard,  the  leader  of  the  claque, 
got  him  out  of  that.  He  wears  gold  earrings,  and  he  lives  by 
doing  nothing,  hanging  on  to  women,  who  are  fools  about 
these  good-looking  scamps.  He  spent  all  the  money  Monsieur 
Thoul  used  to  give  the  child. 

"Then  the  business  was  going  to  grief:  what  embroidery 
brought  in  went  out  across  the  billiard  table.  'Wever,  the 
young  fellow,  had  a  pretty  sister,  madame,  who,  like  her 
brother,  lived  by  hook  and  by  crook,  and  no  better  than  she 
should  be  neither,  over  in  the  students'  quarter." 

"One  of  the  lorettes  at  the  Chaumiere,"  said  Josepha. 

"So,  madame,"  said  the  old  woman.  "So  Idamore — his 
name  is  Idamore,  leastways  that  is  what  he  calls  himself,  for 
his  real  name  is  Chardin — Idamore  fancied  that  your  uncle 
had  a  deal  more  money  than  he  owned  to,  and  he  managed 
to  send  his  sister  Elodie — and  that  was  a  stage  name  he  gave 
her — to  send  her  to  be  a  workwoman  at  our  place,  without 
my  daughter's  knowing  who  she  was;  and,  gracious  good- 
ness !  but  that  girl  turned  the  whole  place  topsy-turvy ;  she 
got  all  them  poor  girls  corrupted,  brutalized — impossible  to 
whitewash  'em,  saving  your  presence 

"  And  she  was  so  sharp,  she  won  over  poor  old  Thoul,  and 
took  him  away,  and  we  don't  know  where,  and  left  us  in  a 
pretty  fix,  with  a  lot  of  bills  coming  in.  To  this  day  as  ever 
is  we  have  not  been  able  to  settle  up ;  but  my  daughter,  who 
knows  all  about  such  things,  keeps  an  eye  on  them  as  they 
fall  due.  Then,  when  Idamore  saw  he  had  got  hold  of  the 
old  man,  through  his  sister,  you  understand,  he  threw  over 
my  daughter,  and  now  he  has  got  hold  of  a  little  actress  at 
the  Funambules.  And  that  was  how  my  daughter  came  to  get 
married,  as  you  will  see " 

"But  you  know  where  the  mattress-picker  lives?"  said 
Josepha. 

"What!  old   Chardin?     As  if  he  lived  anywhere  at  all! 


10  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

He  is  drunk  by  six  in  the  morning ;  he  makes  a  mattress  once 
a  month  ;  he  hangs  about  the  low  wineshops  all  day  ;  he  plays 
at  pools " 

"  He  plays  at  pools?  "  said  Josepha. 

"You  do  not  understand,  madame;  pools  of  billiards,  I 
mean,  and  he  wins  three  or  four  a  day,  and  then  he  drinks." 

"  Water  out  of  the  pools,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Josepha.  "  But 
if  Idamore  haunts  the  boulevard,  by  inquiring  through  my 
friend  Braulard,  we  could  find  him." 

"I  don't  know,  madame;  all  this  was  six  months  ago. 
Idamore  was  one  of  the  sort  who  are  bound  to  find  their  way 
into  the  police  court,  and  from  that  to  Melun — and  then — 
who  knows ?" 

"  To  the  galleys  !  "  said  Josepha. 

"Well,  madame,  you  know  everything,"  said  the  old 
woman,  smiling.      "Well,  if  my  girl  had  never  known  that 

scamp,  she  would  now  be Still,  she  was  in  luck,  all  the 

same,  you- will  say,  for  Monsieur  Grenouville  fell  so  much  in 
love  with  her  that  he  married  her " 

"And  what  brought  that  about?" 

"  Olympe  was  desperate,  madame.  When  she  found  her- 
self left  in  the  lurch  for  that  little  actress — and  she  took  a  rod 
out  of  pickle  for  her,  I  can  tell  you ;  my  word,  but  she  gave 
her  a  dressing  ! — and  when  she  had  lost  poor  old  Thoul,  who 
worshiped  her,  she  would  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  the 
men.  'Wever,  Monsieur  Grenouville,  who  had  been  dealing 
largely  with  us — to  the  tune  of  two  hundred  embroidered 
China-crepe  shawls  every  quarter — he  wanted  to  console  her  ; 
but  whether  or  no,  she  would  not  listen  to  anything  without 
the  mayor  and  the  priest.  'I  mean  to  be  respectable,'  said 
she,  '  or  perish  !  '  and  she  stuck  to  it.  Monsieur  Grenouville 
consented  to  marry  her,  on  condition  of  her  giving  us  all  up, 
and  we  agreed " 

"For  a  handsome  consideration?"  said  Josepha,  with  her 
usual  perspicacity. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  11 

"Yes,  madame,  ten  thousand  francs,  and  an  allowance  to 
my  father,  who  is  past  work." 

"  I  begged  your  daughter  to  make  old  Thoul  happy,  and 
she  has  thrown  me  over.  That  is  not  fair.  I  will  take  no 
interest  in  any  one  for  the  future  !  Tliat  is  what  comes  of 
trying  to  do  good  !  Benevolence  certainly  does  not  answer  as 
a  speculation  !  Olympe  ought,  at  least,  to  have  given  me 
notice  of  this  jobbing.  Now,  if  you  find  the  old  man  Thoul 
within  a  fortnight,  I  will  give  you  a  thousand  francs." 

''That'll  be  a  hard  task,  my  dear  lady;  still,  there  are  a  good 
many  five-franc  pieces  in  a  thousand  francs,  and  I  will  try  to 
earn  your  money." 

"Good-morning,  then,  Madame  Bijou." 

On  going  into  the  boudoir,  the  singer  found  that  Madame 
Hulot  had  fainted ;  but  in  spite  of  having  lost  consciousness, 
her  nervous  trembling  kept  her  still  perpetually  shaking,  as 
the  pieces  of  a  snake  that  has  been  cut  up  still  wriggle  and 
move.  Strong  salts,  cold  water,  and  all  the  ordinary  remedies 
were  applied  to  recall  the  baroness  to  her  senses,  or  rather,  to 
the  apprehension  of  her  sorrows. 

"Ah  !  mademoiselle,  how  far  has  he  fallen  !  "  cried  she, 
recognizing  Josepha,  and  finding  that  she  was  alone  with  her. 

"  Take  heart,  madame,"  replied  the  actress,  who  had  seated 
herself  on  a  cushion  at  Adeline's  feet,  and  was  kissing  her 
hands.  "We  shall  find  him;  and  if  he  is  in  the  mire,  well, 
he  must  wash  himself.  Believe  me,  with  people  of  good 
breeding  it  is  all  a  matter  of  clothes.  Allow  me  to  make  up 
for  the  harm  I  have  done  you,  for  I  see  how  much  you  are  at- 
tached to  your  husband,  in  spite  of  his  misconduct — or  you 
would  not  have  come  here.  Well,  you  see,  the  poor  man  is 
so  fond  of  the  women.  If  you  had  had  a  little  of  our  chic,  you 
would  have  kept  him  from  running  about  the  world  ;  for  you 
would  have  been  what  we  can  never  be — all  the  women  in 
one  that  a  man  wants. 

"  The  State  ought  to  subsidize  a  school  of  manners  for  honest 


12  THE   POOR   PARENTS, 

women  !  But  governments  are  so  prudish  !  Still,  they  are 
guided  by  the  men,  whom  we  privately  guide.  My  word,  I 
pity  nations  ! 

"  But  the  matter  in  question  is  how  you  can  be  helped,  and 
not  to  laugh  at  the  world.  Well,  madame,  be  easy,  go  home 
again,  and  do  not  worry.  I  will  bring  your  Hector  back  to 
you  as  he  was  as  a  man  of  thirty." 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle,  let  us  go  to  see  that  Madame  Grenou- 
ville,"  said  the  baroness.  "She  surely  knows  something! 
Perhaps  I  may  see  the  baron  this  very  day,  and  be  able  to 
snatch  him  at  once  from  poverty  and  disgrace." 

"  Madame,  I  will  show  you  the  deep  gratitude  I  feel  toward 
you  by  not  displaying  the  stage-singer  Josepha,  the  Due 
d'Herouville's  mistress,  in  the  company  of  the  noblest,  saint- 
liest  image  of  virtue.  I  respect  you  too  much  to  be  seen  by 
your  side.  This  is  not  acted  humility ;  it  is  sincere  homage. 
You  make  me  sorry,  madame,  that  I  cannot  tread  in  your 
footsteps,  in  spite  of  the  thorns  that  tear  your  feet  and  hands. 
But  it  cannot  be  helped  !  I  am  one  with  art,  as  you  are  one 
with  virtue." 

"Poor  child!"  said  the  baroness,  moved  amid  her  own 
sorrows  by  a  strange  sense  of  compassionate  sympathy;  "I 
will  pray  God  for  you;  for  you  are  the  victim  of  society, 
which  must  have  theatres.  When  you  are  old,  repent — you 
will  be  heard  if  God  vouchsafes  to  hear  the  prayers  of  a " 

"  Of  a  martyr,  madame,"  Josepha  put  in,  and  she  respect- 
fully kissed  the  baroness'  skirt. 

But  Adeline  took  the  actress'  hand,  and,  drawing  her  toward 
her,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  Coloring  with  pleasure, 
Josepha  saw  the  baroness  into  the  hackney-coach  with  the 
humblest  politeness. 

"It  must  be  some  visiting  lady  of  charity,"  said  the  man- 
servant to  the  maid,  "  for  slie  does  not  do  so  much  for  any 
one,  not  even  for  her  dear  friend  Madame  Jenny  Cadine," 

"Wait   a  few  days,"  said  she,    "and  you  will  see  him, 


COUSIN  BETTY.  13 

madame,  or  I  renounce  the  God  of  my  fathers — and  that  fron; 
a  Jewess,  you  know,  is  a  promise  of  success." 

At  the  very  time  when  Madame  Hulot  was  calling  on 
Josepha,  Victorin,  in  his  study,  was  receiving  an  old  woman 
of  about  seventy-five,  who,  to  gain  admission  to  the  lawyer, 
had  used  the  terrible  name  of  the  head  of  the  detective  force. 
The  man  in  waiting  announced — 

"  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve." 

"  I  have  assumed  one  of  my  business  names,"  said  she, 
taking  a  seat. 

Victorin  felt  a  sort  of  internal  chill  at  the  sight  of  this 
dreadful  old  woman.  Though  handsomely  dressed,  she  was 
terrible  to  look  upon,  for  her  flat,  colorless,  strongly- marked 
face,  furrowed  with  wrinkles,  expressed  a  sort  of  cold  malignity. 
Marat,  as  a  woman  of  that  age,  might  have  been  like  this 
creature,  a  living  embodiment  of  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

This  sinister  old  woman's  small  pale  eyes  twinkled  with  a 
tiger's  blood-thirsty  greed.  Her  broad,  flat  nose,  with  nostrils 
expanded  into  oval  cavities,  breathed  the  fires  of  hell,  and 
resembled  the  beak  of  some  evil  bird  of  prey.  The  spirit 
of  intrigue  lurked  behind  her  low  cruel  brow.  Long  hairs 
had  grown  from  her  wrinkled  chin,  betraying  the  masculine 
character  of  her  schemes.  Any  one  seeing  that  woman's  face 
would  have  said  that  artists  had  failed  in  their  conceptions  of 
Mephistopheles. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  she  began,  with  a  patronizing  air,  "  I  have 
long  since  given  up  active  business  of  any  kind.  What  I  have 
come  to  you  to  do,  I  have  undertaken,  for  the  sake  of  my  dear 
nephew,  whom  I  love  more  than  I  could  love  a  son  of  my 
own.  Now,  the  head  of  the  police — to  whom  the  president 
of  the  Council  said  two  words  in  his  ear  as  regards  yourself, 
in  talking  to  Monsieur  Chapuzot — thinks  as  the  police  ought 
not  to  appear  in  a  matter  of  this  description,  you  understand. 
They  gave  my  nephew  a  free  hand,  but  my  nephew  will  have 


14  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

nothing  to  say  to  it,  except  as  before  the  Council ;  he  will 

not  be  seen  in  it." 

"  Then  your  nephew  is " 

''  You  have  hit  it,  and  I  am  rather  proud  of  him ;  I  am  the 
aunt  of  Vautrin,"  said  she,  interrupting  the  lawyer,  "  for  he 
is  my  pupil,  and  he  soon  taught  his  teacher.  We  have  con- 
sidered this  case,  and  have  come  to  our  own  conclusions. 
Will  you  hand  over  thirty  tliousand  francs  to  have  the  whole 
thing  taken  off  your  hands  ?  I  will  make  a  clean  sweep  of  it 
all,  and  you  need  not  pay  till  the  job  is  done." 

"  Do  you  know  the  persons  concerned?  " 

''  No,  my  dear  sir ;  I  look  for  information  from  you.  What 
we  are  told  is,  that  a  certain  old  idiot  has  fallen  into  the 
clutches  of  a  widow.  This  widow,  of  nine-and-twenty,  has 
played  her  cards  so  well  that  she  has  forty  thousand  francs  a 
year,  of  which  she  has  robbed  two  fathers  of  families.  She  is 
now  about  to  swallow  down  eighty  thousand  francs  a  year  by 
marrying  an  old  boy  of  sixty-one.  She  will  thus  ruin  a  respect- 
able family,  and  hand  over  this  vast  fortune  to  the  child  of 
some  lover  by  getting  rid  at  once  of  the  old  husband.  That 
is  the  case  as  stated." 

"  Quite  correct,"  said  Victorin.  "  My  father-in-law,  Mon- 
sieur Crevel " 

"  Formerly  a  perfumer  ;  a  mayor — yes,  I  live  in  his  district 
under  the  name  of  Ma'ame  Nourrisson,"  said  the  woman. 

"  The  other  person  is  Madame  Marneffe." 

"I  do  not  know  her,"  said  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve. 
"  But  within  three  days  I  will  be  in  a  position  to  count  her 
chemises." 

"  Can  you  hinder  the  marriage?  "  asked  Victorin. 

"  How  far  have  they  gone  ?  " 

"  To  the  second  time  of  asking." 

''  We  must  carry  off  the  woman.  To-day  is  Sunday — there 
are  but  three  days,  for  they  will  be  married  on  Wednesday,  no 
doubt ;  it  is  impossible.     But  she  may  be  killed " 


COUSTX  BETTY.  15 

Victoriii  Huiot  started  with  an  honest  man's  horror  at  hear- 
ina:  these  five  words  uttered  in  cold  blood. 

"  Murder?  "  said  he.     "And  how  could  you  do  it?  " 

**  For  forty  years  now,  monsieur,  we  have  played  the  part  of 
fate,"  replied  she,  with  terrible  pride,  '-and  do  just  what  we  will 
in  Paris.  More  than  one  family — even  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain — has  told  me  all  its  secrets,  I  can  tell  you  !  I  have 
made  and  spoiled  many  a  match,  I  have  destroyed  many  a  will, 
and  saved  many  a  man's  honor.  I  hold  penned  in  there,"  and 
she  tapped  her  forehead,  "  a  flock  of  secrets  which  are  worth 
thirty-six  thousand  francs  a  year  to  me ;  and  you — you  will  be 
one  of  my  lambs,  hoh  !  Could  such  a  woman  as  I  am  be  what 
I  am  if  she  revealed  her  ways  and  means  ?     I  act. 

'•  Whatever  I  may  do,  sir,  will  be  the  result  of  an  accident ; 
you  need  feel  no  remorse.  You  will  be  like  a  man  cured  by 
a  clairvoyant,  by  the  end  of  a  month  ;  it  seems  all  the  work  of 
Nature." 

Victorin  broke  out  in  a  cold  sweat.  The  sight  of  an  execu- 
tioner would  have  shocked  him  less  than  this  prolix  and  pre- 
tentious Sister  of  the  Hulks.  As  he  looked  at  her  purple-red 
gown,  she  seemed  to  him  dyed  in  blood. 

"  Madame,  I  do  not  accept  the  help  of  your  experience  and 
skill  if  success  is  to  cost  anybody's  life,  or  the  least  criminal  act 
is  to  come  of  it." 

"You  are  a  great  baby,  monsieur,"  replied  the  woman; 
"you  wish  to  remain  blameless  in  your  own  eyes,  while  you 
want  your  enemy  to  be  overthrown." 

Victorin  shook  his  head  in  denial. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  "you  want  this  Madame  Marneffe  to 
drop  the  prey  she  has  between  her  teeth.  But  how  do  you 
expect  to  make  a  tiger  drop  his  piece  of  beef?  Can  you  do  it 
by  patting  his  back  and  saying  :  *  pussy  !  pussy  ? '  You  are 
illogical.  You  want  a  battle  fought,  but  you  object  to  blows. 
Well,  I  grant  you  the  innocence  you  are  so  careful  over.  I 
have  alwavs  found  that  there  was  material  for  hypocrisy  in 


16  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

honesty  !  One  day,  three  months  hence,  a  poor  priest  will 
come  to  beg  of  you  forty  thousand  francs  for  a  pious  work — a 
convent  to  be  rebuilt  in  the  Levant — in  the  desert.  If  you 
are  satisfied  writh  your  lot,  give  the  good  man  the  money. 
You  will  pay  more  than  that  into  the  treasury.  It  will  be  a 
mere  trifle  in  comparison  with  what  you  will  get,  I  can  tell 
you." 

She  rose,  standing  on  the  broad  feet  that  seemed  to  overflow 
her  satin  shoes;  she  smiled,  bowed,  and  vanished. 

"  The  devil  has  a  sister,"  said  Victorin,  rising. 

He  saw  the  hideous  stranger  to  the  door,  a  creature  called 
up  from  the  dens  of  the  police,  as  on  the  stage  a  monster 
comes  up  from  the  third  cellar  at  the  touch  of  a  fairy's  wand 
in  a  ballet-extravaganza. 

After  finishing  what  he  had  to  do  at  the  Courts,  Victorin 
went  to  call  on  Monsieur  Chapuzot,  the  head  of  one  of  the 
most  important  branches  of  the  central  police,  to  make  some 
inquiries  about  the  stranger.  Finding  Monsieur  Chapuzot 
alone  in  his  office,  Victorin  thanked  him  for  his  help. 

"  You  sent  me  an  old  woman  who  might  stand  for  the  in- 
carnation of  the  criminal  side  of  Paris." 

Monsieur  Chapuzot  laid  his  spectacles  on  his  papers  and 
looked  at  the  lawyer  with  astonishment. 

"  I  should  not  have  taken  the  liberty  of  sending  anybody 
to  see  you  without  giving  you  notice  beforehand,  or  a  line  of 
introduction,"  said  he. 

"Then  it  was  Monsieur  le  Prefet ?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Chapuzot.  "The  last  time  that  the 
Prince  de  Wisserabourg  dined  with  the  minister  of  the  interior, 
he  spoke  to  the  prefet  of  the  position  in  which  you  find  your- 
self— a  deplorable  position — and  asked  him  if  you  could  be 
helped  in  any  friendly  way.  The  prefet,  who  was  interested 
by  the  regrets  his  excellency  expressed  as  to  this  family  affair, 
did  me  the  honor  to  consult  me  about  it. 

"Ever  since  the  present  prefet  has  held  the  reins  of  this 


COUSIN  BETTY.  17 

department — so  useful  and  so  vilified — he  has  made  it  a  rule 
that  family  matters  are  never  to  be  interfered  in.  He  is  right 
in  principle  and  in  morality;  but  in  practice  he  is  wrong.  la 
the  forty-five  years  that  I  have  served  in  the  police,  it  did, 
from  1799  till  1815,  great  service  in  family  concerns.  Since 
1820  a  constitutional  government  and  the  press  have  com- 
pletely altered  the  conditions  of  existence.  So  my  advice, 
indeed,  was  not  to  intervene  in  such  a  case,  and  the  prefet 
did  me  the  honor  to  agree  with  my  remarks.  The  head  of 
the  detective  branch  had  orders,  in  my  presence,  to  take  no 
steps;  so  if  you  have  had  any  one  sent  to  you  by  him,  he 
will  be  reprimanded.  It  might  cost  him  his  place.  *  The 
police  will  do  this  or  that,'  is  easily  said;  the  police,  the 
police  !  But,  my  dear  sir,  the  marshal  and  the  Ministerial 
Council  do  not  know  what  the  police  is.  The  police  alone 
knows  tlie  police.  The  old  Kings,  Napoleon  and  Louis 
XVIII.,  knew  their  police;  but  as  for  ours,  only  Fouch6, 
Monsieur  Lenoir,  and  Monsieur  de  Sartines  have  had  any 
notion  of  it.  Everything  is  changed  now;  we  are  reduced 
and  disarmed  !  I  have  seen  many  private  disasters  develop, 
which  I  could  have  checked  with  five  grains  of  despotic 
power.  We  shall  be  regretted  by  the  very  men  who  have 
crippled  us  when  they,  like  you,  stand  face  to  face  with  some 
moral  monstrosities,  which  ought  to  be  swept  away  as  we 
sweep  away  mud  !  In  public  affairs  the  police  is  expected  to 
foresee  everything,  or  when  the  safety  of  the  public  is  involved 
— but  the  family  ?  It  is  sacred  !  I  would  do  my  utmost  to 
discover  and  hinder  a  plot  against  the  King's  life,  I  would 
see  through  the  walls  of  a  house  ;  but  as  to  laying  a  finger  on 
a  household,  or  peeping  into  private  interests — never,  so  long 
as  I  sit  in  this  office.     I  should  be  afraid." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Of  the  press,  Monsieur  the  Deputy,  of  the  Left  Centre." 

"  What,  then,  can  I  do  ?  "  said  Hulot,  after  a  pause. 

"Well,   vou   are   the  Family,"  said   the  official.      "That 


18  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

settles  it ;  you  can  do  what  you  please.  But  as  to  helping 
you,  as  to  using  the  police  as  an  instrument  of  private  feelings 
and  interests,  how  is  it  possible?  There  lies,  you  see,  the 
secret  of  the  persecution,  necessary,  but  pronounced  illegal 
by  the  bench,  which  was  brought  to  bear  against  the  pred- 
ecessor of  our  present  chief  detective.  Bibi-Lupin  undertook 
investigations  for  the  benefit  of  private  persons.  This  might 
have  led  to  great  social  dangers.  With  the  means  at  his  com- 
mand, the  man  would  have  been  formidable,  an  underlying 
fate " 

"But  in  my  place?"  said  Hulot. 

"What,  you  ask  my  advice?  You  who  sell  it!"  replied 
Monsieur  Chapuzot.  "  Come,  come,  my  dear  sir,  you  are 
making  fun  of  me." 

Hulot  bowed  to  the  functionary,  and  went  away  without 
seeing  that  gentleman's  almost  imperceptible  shrug  as  he  rose 
to  open  the  door. 

"And  he  expects  to  be  a  statesman  !  "  said  Chapuzot  to 
himself  as  he  returned  to  his  reports. 

Victorin  went  home,  still  full  of  perplexities  which  he  could 
confide  to  no  one. 

At  dinner  the  baroness  joyfully  announced  to  her  children 
that  within  a  month  their  father  might  be  sharing  their  com- 
forts, and  end  his  days  in  peace  among  his  family, 

"Oh,  I  would  gladly  give  my  three  thousand  six  hundred 
francs  a  year  to  see  the  baron  here  !  "  cried  Lisbeth.  "  But, 
my  dear  Adeline,  do  not  dream  beforehand  of  such  happiness, 
I  entreat  you  !  " 

"  Betty  is  right,"  said  Celestine.  "  My  dear  mother,  wait 
till  the  end." 

The  baroness,  all  feeling  and  all  hope,  related  her  visit  to 
Josepha,  expressed  her  sense  of  the  misery  of  such  women  in 
the  midst  of  good  fortune,  and  mentioned  Chardin  the  mat- 
tress-picker, the  father  of  the  Oran  storekeeper,  thus  showing 
that  her  hopes  were  not  groundless. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  19 

By  seven  next  morning  Lisbeth  had  driven  in  a  hackney- 
coach  to  the  Quai  de  la  Tournelle,  and  stopped  the  vehicle  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Poissy. 

"Go  to  the  Rue  des  Bernardins,"  said  she  to  the  driver, 
"  No.  7,  a  house  with  an  entry  and  no  porter.  Go  up  to  the 
fifth  floor,  ring  at  the  door  to  the  left,  on  which  you  will  see 
'  Mademoiselle  Chardin — Lace  and  Shawls  Mended.'  She  will 
answer  the  door.  Ask  for  the  chevalier.  She  will  say  he  is 
out.  Say  in  reply,  '  Yes,  I  know,  but  find  him,  for  his  maid 
is  out  on  the  quay  in  a  coach,  and  wants  to  see  him.'  " 

Twenty  minutes  later,  an  old  man,  who  looked  about  eighty, 
with  perfectly  white  hair,  and  a  nose  reddened  by  the  cold, 
and  a  pale,  wrinkled  face  like  an  old  woman's,  came  shuffling 
slowly  along  in  list  slippers,  a  shiny  alpaca  overcoat  hang- 
ing on  his  stooping  shoulders,  no  ribbon  at  his  button-hole, 
the  sleeves  of  an  under-vest  showing  below  his  coat-cuffs,  and 
his  shirt-front  unpleasantly  dingy.  He  approached  timidly, 
looked  at  the  coach,  recognized  Lisbeth,  and  came  to  the 
window. 

"  Why,  my  dear  cousin,  what  a  state  you  are  in  !  " 

"  Elodie  keeps  everything  for  herself,"  said  Baron  Hulot. 
"Those  Chardins  are  a  blackguard  crew." 

"  Will  you  come  home  to  us?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  I  would  rather  go 
to  America." 

"Adeline  is  on  the  scent." 

"Oh,  if  only  some  one  would  pay  my  debts!  "  said  the 
baron,  with  a  suspicious  look,  "  for  Samanon  is  after  me." 

"  We  have  not  paid  up  the  arrears  yet ;  your  son  still  owes 
a  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"Poor  boy  !" 

"And  your  pension  will  not  be  free  before  seven  or  eight 
months.  If  you  will  wait  a  minute,  I  have  two  thousand 
francs  here." 

The  baron  held  out  his  hand  with  fearful  avidity. 


20  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"  Give  it  me,  Lisbeth,  and  may  God  reward  you  !  Give 
it  me  ;  I  know  where  to  go." 

"  But  you  will  tell  me  where,  old  wretch  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes.  Then  I  can  wait  eight  months,  for  I  have  dis- 
covered a  little  angel,  a  good  child,  an  innocent  thing  not 
old  enough  to  be  depraved." 

"Do  not  forget  the  police  court,"  said  Lisbeth,  who  flat- 
tered herself  that  she  would  some  day  see  Hulot  there. 

"  No.  It  is  in  the  Rue  de  Charonne,"  said  the  baron,  "a 
part  of  the  town  where  no  fuss  is  made  about  anything.  No 
one  will  ever  find  me  there.  I  am  called  Pere  Thorec,  Betty, 
and  I  shall  be  taken  for  a  retired  cabinetmaker;  the  girl  is 
fond  of  me,  and  I  will  not  allow  my  back  to  be  shorn  any 
more." 

"No,  that  has  been  done,"  said  Lisbeth,  looking  at  his 
coat.      "  Supposing  I  take  you  there." 

Baron  Hulot  got  into  the  coach,  deserting  Mademoiselle 
Elodie  without  taking  leave  of  her,  as  he  might  have  tossed 
aside  a  novel  he  had  finished. 

In  half  an  hour,  during  which  Baron  Hulot  talked  to  Lis- 
beth of  nothing  but  little  Atala  Judici — for  he  had  fallen  by 
degrees  to  those  base  passions  that  ruin  old  men — she  set  him 
down,  with  two  thousand  francs  in  his  pocket,  in  the  Rue  de 
Charonne,  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine,  at  the  door  of  a  doubtful 
and  sinister-looking  house. 

"  Good-day,  cousin  ;  so  now  you  are  to  be  called  Thorec, 
I  suppose?  Send  none  but  commissionaires  if  you  need  me, 
and  always  take  them  from  different  parts." 

"  Trust  me  !  Oh,  I  am  really  very  lucky  !  "  said  the  baron, 
his  face  beaming  with  the  prospect  of  new  and  future  happiness. 

"  No  one  can  find  him  there,"  said  Lisbeth  ;  and  she  paid 
the  coach  at  the  Boulevard  Beaumarchais,  and  returned  to  the 
Rue  Louis-le-Grand  in  the  omnibus. 

On  the  following  day  Crevel  was  announced  at  the  hour 
when  all  the  family  were  together  in  the  drawing-room,  just 


CO  us  IX  BETTY.  21 

after  breakfast.  Celestine  flew  to  throw  her  arms  round  her 
father's  neck,  and  behaved  as  if  she  had  seen  him  only  the 
day  before,  though  in  fact  he  had  not  called  there  for  more 
than  two  years. 

"Good-morning,  father,"  said  Victorin,  offering  him  his 
hand. 

"Good-morning,  children,"  said  the  pompous  Crevel. 
"  Madame  la  Baronne,  I  throw  myself  at  your  feet  !  Good 
heavens,  how  the  children  grow  !  they  are  pushing  us  off  the 
perch — '  Grand-pa,'  they  say,  '  we  want  our  turn  in  the  sun- 
shine.' Madame  la  Comtesse,  you  are  as  lovely  as  ever,"  he 
went  on,  addressing  Hortense.  "Ah,  ha!  and  here  is  the 
best  of  good  money  :   Cousin  Betty,  the  wise  virgin. 

"  Why,  you  are  really  very  comfortable  here,"  said  he,  after 
scattering  these  greetings  with  a  cackle  of  loud  laughter  that 
hardly  moved  the  rubicund  muscles  of  his  broad  face. 

He  looked  at  his  daughter  with  some  contempt. 

"  My  dear  Celestine,  I  will  make  you  a  present  of  all  my 
furniture  out  of  the  Rue  des  Saussayes ;  it  will  just  do  here. 
Your  drawing-room  wants  furbishing  up.  Ha !  there  is  that 
little  monkey  Wenceslas.  Well,  and  are  we  very  good  chil- 
dren, I  wonder?    You  must  have  pretty  manners,  you  know." 

"To  make  up  for  those  who  have  none,"  said  Lisbeth. 

"  That  sarcasm,  my  dear  Lisbeth,  has  lost  its  sting.  I  am 
going,  my  dear  children,  to  put  an  end  to  the  false  position 
in  which  I  have  so  long  been  placed ;  I  have  come,  like  a 
good  father,  to  announce  my  approaching  marriage  without 
any  circumlocution." 

"  You  have  a  perfect  right  to  marry,"  said  Victorin.  "  And 
for  my  part,  I  give  you  back  the  promise  you  made  me  when 
you  gave  me  the  hand  of  my  dear  Celestine " 

"  What  promise?  "  said  Crevel. 

"Not  to  marry,"  replied  the  law3-er.  "You  will  do  me 
the  justice  to  allow  that  I  did  not  ask  you  to  pledge  yourself, 
that  you  gave  your  word  quite  voluntarily  and  in  spite  of  my 


22  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

desire,  for  I  pointed  out  to  you  at  the  time  that  you  were  un- 
wise to  bind  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  do  remember,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Crevel, 
ashamed  of  himself.  "  But,  on  my  honor,  if  you  will  but  live 
with  Madame  Crevel,  my  children,  you  will  find  no  reason  to 
repent.  Your  good  feeling  touches  me,  Victorin,  and  you 
will  find  that  generosity  to  me  is  not  unrewarded.  Come, 
by  the  poker  !  welcome  your  stepmother  and  come  to  the 
wedding." 

"But  you  have  not  told  us  the  lady's  name,  papa,"  said 
Celestine. 

"  Why,  it  is  an  open  secret,"  replied  Crevel.  "  Do  not  let 
us  play  at  guess  who  can  !     Betty  must  have  told  you." 

"  My  dear  Monsieur  Crevel,"  replied  Lisbeth,  "there  are 
certain  names  we  never  utter  here " 

"Well,  then,  it  is  Madame  Marneffe." 

"  Monsieur  Crevel,"  said  the  lawyer  very  sternly,  "  neither 
my  wife  nor  I  can  be  present  at  tliat  marriage ;  not  out  of 
interest,  for  I  spoke  in  all  sincerity  just  now.  Yes,  I  am  most 
happy  to  think  that  you  may  find  happiness  in  this  union  ;  but 
I  act  on  considerations  of  honor  and  good  feeling  which  you 
must  understand,  and  which  I  cannot  speak  of  here,  as  they 
reopen  wounds  still  ready  to  bleed " 

The  baroness  telegraphed  a  signal  to  Hortense,  who  tucked 
her  little  one  under  her  arm,  saying,  "  Come,  Wenceslas,  and 
have  your  bath  !     Good-by,  Monsieur  Crevel." 

The  baroness  also  bowed  to  Crevel  without  a  word  ;  and 
Crevel  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  child's  astonishment 
when  threatened  with  this  impromptu  tubbing, 

"You,  monsieur,"  said  Victorin,  when  he  found  himself 
alone  with  Lisbeth,  his  wife,  and  his  father-in-law,  "are  about 
to  marry  a  woman  loaded  with  the  spoils  of  my  father ;  it  was 
she  who,  in  cold  blood,  brought  him  down  to  such  depths ;  a 
woman  who  is  the  son-in-law's  mistress  after  ruining  the  father- 
in-law  ;  who  is  the  cause  of  constant  grief  to  my  sister  !     And 


COUSIN  BETTY.  23 

you  fancy  that  I  shall  be  seen  to  sanction  your  madness  by  my 
presence?  I  deeply  pity  you,  dear  Monsieur  Crevel ;  you 
have  no  family  feeling  ;  you  do  not  understand  the  unity  of 
the  honor  which  binds  the  members  of  it  together.  There  is 
no  arguing  with  passion — as  I  have  too  much  reason  to  know. 
The  slaves  of  their  passions  are  as  deaf  as  they  are  blind. 
Your  daughter  Celestine  has  too  strong  a  sense  of  her  duty  to 
proffer  a  word  of  reproach." 

"  That  would,  indeed,  be  a  pretty  state  of  things  !  "  cried 
Crevel,  trying  to  cut  short  this  harangue. 

"  Celestine  would  not  be  my  wife  if  she  made  the  slightest 
remonstrance,"  the  lawyer  went  on.  "But  I,  at  least,  may 
try  to  stop  you  before  you  step  over  the  precipice,  especially 
after  giving  you  ample  proof  of  my  disinterestedness.  It  is 
not  your  fortune,  it  is  you  that  I  care  about.  Nay,  to  make 
it  quite  plain  to  you,  I  may  add,  if  it  were  only  to  set  your 
mind  at  ease  with  regard  to  your  marriage-contract,  that  I  am 
now  in  a  position  which  leaves  me  with  nothing  to  wish  for 
that " 

"  Thanks  to  me  !  "  exclaimed  Crevel,  whose  face  had  turned 
purple. 

"Thanks  to  Celestine's  fortune,"  replied  Victorin.  "And 
if  you  regret  having  given  to  your  daughter,  as  a  present  from 
yourself,  a  sum  which  is  not  half  what  her  mother  left  her,  I 
can  only  say  that  we  are  prepared  to  give  it  back." 

"And  do  you  not  know,  my  respected  son-in-law,"  said 
Crevel,  striking  an  attitude,  "  that  under  the  shelter  of  my 
name  Madame  Marneffe  is  not  called  upon  to  answer  for  her 
conduct  excepting  as  my  wife — as  Madame  Crevel?" 

"That  is,  no  doubt,  quite  the  correct  thing,"  said  the 
lawyer  ;  "  very  generous  so  far  as  the  affections  are  concerned 
and  the  vagaries  of  passion  ;  but  I  know  of  no  name,  nor  law, 
nor  title  that  can  shelter  the  theft  of  three  hundred  thousand 
francs  so  meanly  wrung  from  my  father  !  I  tell  you  plainly, 
my  dear  father-in-law,  your  future  wife  is  unworthy  of  you  ; 


24  THE   POOR   PARENTS 

she  is  false  to  you,  and  is  madly  in  love  with  my  brother-in- 
law,  Steinbock,  whose  debts  she  has  paid." 

"  It  was  I  who  paid  them  !  " 

"  Very  good,"  said  Hulot ;  "I  am  glad  for  Count  Stein- 
bock's  sake;  he  may  some  day  repay  the  money.  But  he  is 
loved,  much  loved,  and  often " 

"Loved  !  "  cried  Crevel,  whose  face  showed  his  utter  be- 
wilderment, "  It  is  coA'ardly,  and  dirty,  and  mean,  and  cheap, 
to  calumniate  a  woman  !  When  a  man  says  such  things,  mon- 
sieur, he  must  bring  proof." 

*'  I  will  bring  proof." 

"I  shall  expect  it." 

"By  the  day  after  to-morrow,  my  dear  Monsieur  Crevel,  I 
shall  be  able  to  tell  you  the  day,  the  hour,  the  very  minute 
when  I  can  expose  the  horrible  depravity  of  your  future  wife." 

"  Very  well ;  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Crevel,  who  had 
recovered  himself. 

"Good-by,  my  children,  for  the  present ;  good-by,  Betty." 

"See  him  out,  Lisbeth,"  said  Celestine  in  an  undertone. 

"And  is  this  the  way  you  take  yourself  off?  "  cried  Lisbeth 
to  Crevel. 

"Ah,  ha!"  said  Crevel,  "  my  son-in-law  is  too  clever  by 
half;  he  is  getting  on.  The  Courts  and  the  Chamber,  judicial 
trickery  and  political  dodges,  are  making  a  man  of  him  with 
a  vengeance  !  So  he  knows  I  am  to  be  married  on  Wednes- 
day, and  on  a  Sunday  my  gentleman  proposes  to  fix  the  hour, 
within  three  days,  when  he  can  prove  that  my  wife  is  unworthy 
of  me.  That  is  a  good  story  !  Well,  I  ?im  going  back  to  sign 
the  contract.  Come  with  me,  Betty — yes,  come.  They  will 
never  know.  I  meant  to  have  left  Celestine  forty  thousand 
francs  a  year  ;  but  Hulot  has  just  behaved  in  a  way  to  alienate 
my  affection  for  ever." 

"Give  me  ten  minutes.  Father  Crevel;  wait  for  me  in  your 
carriage  at  the  gate.  I  will  make  some  excuse  for  going 
out." 


COUSIN-  BETTY.  25 

"Very  well— all  right." 

"  My  ilears,"  said  Lisbeth.  v/ho  found  all  the  family  reas- 
sembled in  the  drawing-room,  "  I  am  going  with  Crevel :  the 
marriage-contract  is  to  be  signed  this  afternoon,  and  I  shall 
hear  what  he  has  settled.  It  will  probably  be  my  last  visit 
to  that  woman.  Your  father  is  furious;  he  will  disinherit 
you." 

"  His  vanity  will  prevent  that,"  said  the  son-in-law.  "  He 
was  bent  on  owning  the  estate  of  Presles,  and  he  will  keep  it; 
I  know  him.  Even  if  he  were  to  have  children,  Celestine 
would  still  have  half  of  what  he  might  leave.  The  law  forbids 
his  giving  away  all  his  fortune.  Still,  these  questions  are 
nothing  to  me  ;  I  am  thinking  only  of  our  honor.  Go,  then, 
cousin,"  and  he  pressed  Lisbeth's  hand,  "and  listen  carefully 
to  the  contract." 

Twenty  minutes  after,  Lisbeth  and  Crevel  reached  the  house 
in  the  Rue  Barbet,  where  Madame  Marneffe  was  awaiting,  in 
mild  impatience,  the  result  of  a  step  taken  by  her  commands. 
Valerie  had  in  the  end  fallen  a  prey  to  the  absorbing  love 
which,  once  in  her  life,  masters  a  woman's  heart.  Wenceslas 
was  its  object,  and,  a  failure  as  an  artist,  he  became  in  Madame 
Marneffe's  hands  a  lover  so  perfect  that  he  was  to  her  what 
she  had  been  to  Baron  Hulot. 

Valerie  was  holding  a  slipper  in  one  hand,  and  Steinbuck 
clasped  the  other,  while  her  head  rested  on  his  shoulder.  The 
rambling  conversation  in  which  they  had  been  engaged  ever 
since  Crevel  went  out  may  be  ticketed,  like  certain  lengthy 
literary  efforts  of  our  day,  ^^Al^  rights  reser^'ed,''^  for  it  cannot 
be  reproduced.  This  masterpiece  of  personal  poetry  naturally 
brought  a  regret  to  the  artist's  lips,  and  he  said,  not  without 
some  bitterness — 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  that  I  married  ;  for  if  I  had  but  waited 
as  Lisbeth  told  me,  I  might  now  have  married  you." 

**  Who  but  a  Pole  would  wish  to  make  a  wife  of  a  devoted 


26  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

mistress?"  cried  Valerie.      "To  change  love  into  duty,  and 
pleasure  into  a  bore." 

"I  know  you  to  be  so  fickle,"  replied  Steinbock.  "Did 
I  not  hear  you  talking  to  Lisbeth  of  that  Brazilian,  Baron 
Montez?" 

"  Do  you  want  to  rid  me  of  him  ?  " 

"It  would  be  the  only  way  to  hinder  his  seeing  you,"  said 
the  ex-sculptor. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  my  darling — for  I  tell  you  everything," 
said  Valerie — "  I  was  saving  him  up  for  a  husband.  The 
promises  I  have  made  to  that  man  !  Oh,  long  before  I  knew 
you,"  said  she,  in  reply  to  a  movement  from  Wenceslas. 
"  And  those  promises,  of  which  he  avails  himself  to  plague 
me,  oblige  me  to  get  married  almost  secretly  ;  for  if  he  should 
hear  that  I  am  marrying  Crevel,  he  is  the  sort  of  man  that — 
that  would  kill  me." 

"Oh,  as  to  that !  "  said  Steinbock,  with  a  scornful  expres- 
sion, which  conveyed  that  such  a  danger  was  small  indeed  for 
a  woman  beloved  by  a  Pole. 

And  in  the  matter  of  valor  there  is  no  brag  or  bravado  in 
a  Pole,  so  thoroughly  and  seriously  brave  are  they  all. 

"And  that  idiot  Crevel,"  she  went  on,  "who  wants  to 
make  a  great  display  and  indulge  his  taste  for  cheap  splendor 
in  honor  of  the  wedding,  places  me  in  difficulties  from  which 
I  see  no  escape." 

Could  Valerie  confess  to  this  man,  whom  she  adored,  that, 
since  the  discomfiture  of  Baron  Hulot,  this  Baron  Henri 
Montez  had  inherited  the  privilege  of  calling  on  lier  at  all 
hours  of  the  day  or  night ;  and  that,  notwithstanding  her 
cleverness,  she  was  still  puzzled  to  find  a  cause  of  quarrel  in 
which  the  Brazilian  might  seem  to  be  solely  in  the  wrong  ? 
She  knew  the  baron's  almost  savage  temper — not  unlike  Lis- 
beth's — too  well  not  to  quake  as  she  thought  of  this  Othello 
of  Rio  de  Janeiro. 

As  the  carriage  drove  up,  Steinbock  released  Valerie,  for  his 


COUSIN  BETTY.  27 

arm  was  round  her  wair.t,  and  took  up  a  newspaper,  in  which 
he  was  found  absorbed.  Valerie  was  embroidering  with  elabo- 
rate care  at  the  slippers  she  was  working  for  Crevel. 

"How  they  slander  her!"  whispered  Lisbeth  to  Crevel, 
pointing  to  this  picture  as  they  opened  the  door.  "  Look  at 
her  hair — not  in  the  least  tumbled.  To  hear  Victorin  you 
might  have  expected  to  find  two  turtle-doves  in  a  nest." 

"  My  dear  Lisbeth,"  replied  Crevel,  in  his  favorite  position, 
**  you  see  that  to  turn  Lucretia  into  Aspasia,  you  have  only  to 
inspire  a  passion  !  " 

"And  have  I  not  always  told  you,"  said  Lisbeth,  "that 
women  like  a  burly  profligate  like  you  ?  " 

"  And  she  would  be  most  ungrateful  not  to,"  said  Crevel ; 
"  for  as  to  the  money  I  have  spent  here,  Grindot  and  I  alone 
can  tell !  " 

And  he  waved  a  hand  at  the  staircase. 

In  decorating  this  house,  which  Crevel  regarded  as  his  own, 
Grindot  had  tried  to  compete  with  Cleretti,  in  whose  hands 
the  Due  d'Herouville  had  placed  Josepha's  villa.  But  Crevel, 
incapable  of  understanding  art,  had,  like  all  sordid  souls, 
wanted  to  spend  a  certaim  sum  fixed  beforehand.  Grindot, 
fettered  by  a  contract,  had  found  it  impossible  to  embody  his 
architectural  dream. 

The  difference  between  Josepha's  house  and  that  in  the  Rue 
Barbet  was  just  that  between  the  individual  stamp  on  things 
and  commonness.  The  objects  you  admired  at  Josepha's 
were  to  be  seen  nowhere  else;  those  that  glittered  at  Crevel's 
were  to  be  bought  in  any  store.  These  two  types  of  luxury 
are  divided  by  the  river  Million.  A  mirror,  if  unique,  is 
worth  six  thousand  francs ;  a  mirror  designed  by  a  manufac- 
turer who  turns  them  out  by  the  dozen  costs  five  hundred.  A 
genuine  chandelier  by  Bonlle  will  sell  at  public  auction  for 
three  thousand  francs  ;  the  same  thing  reproduced  by  casting 
may  be  made  for  a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  ;  one  is  arch- 
seologically  what  a  picture  by   Raphael  is  in   painting,  the 


28  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

Other  is  a  copy.  At  what  would  you  value  a  copy  of  a  Ra- 
phael ?  Thus  Crevel's  mansion  was  a  splendid  example  of  the 
luxury  of  idiots,  while  Josepha's  was  a  perfect  model  of  an 
artist's  home. 

"War  is  declared,"  said  Crevel,  going  up  to  Madame 
Marneffe. 

She  rang  the  bell. 

"Go  and  find  Monsieur  Berthier,"  said  she  to  the  man- 
servant, "and  do  not  return  without  him.  If  you  had  suc- 
ceeded," said  she,  embracing  Crevel,  "we  would  have  post- 
poned our  happiness,  my  dear  daddy,  and  have  given  a  really 
splendid  entertainment ;  but  when  a  whole  family  is  set  against 
a  match,  my  dear,  decency  requires  that  the  wedding  shall  be 
a  quiet  one,  especially  when  the  lady  is  a  widow." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  intend  to  make  a  display  of  magnifi- 
cence a  la  Louis  XIV.,"  said  Crevel,  who  of  late  had  held  the 
eighteenth  century  rather  cheap.  "  I  have  ordered  new  car- 
riages ;  there  is  one  for  monsieur  and  one  for  madame,  two 
neat  coupes  ;  and  a  chaise,  a  handsome  traveling  carriage  with 
a  splendid  hammercloth,  on  springs  that  tremble  like  Madame 
Hulot." 

"  Oh,  ho  !  You  intend ?  Then  you  have  ceased  to  be  my 
lamb?  No,  no,  my  friend,  you  will  do  what  /intend.  We 
will  sign  the  contract  quietly — ^just  ourselves — this  afternoon. 
Then,  on  Wednesday,  we  will  be  regularly  married,  really 
married,  in  mufti,  as  my  poor  mother  would  have  said.  We 
will  walk  to  church,  plainly  dressed,  and  have  only  a  low 
mass.  Our  witnesses  are  Stidmann,  Stei.nbock,  Vignon,  and 
Massol,  all  wide-awake  men,  wlio  will  be  at  the  mayor's  office 
by  chance,  and  who  will  so  far  sacrifice  themselves  as  to  at- 
tend mass. 

"  Your  colleague  will  perform  the  civil  marriage,  for  once 
in  a  way,  as  early  as  half-past  nine.  Mass  is  at  ten  ;  we  shall 
be  at  home  to  breakfast  by  half-past  eleven. 

"  I  have  promised  our  guests  that  we  will  sit  at  table  till 


COUSIN  BETTY.  29 

the  evening.  There  will  be  Bixiou,  your  old  official  chum 
du  Tillet,  Lousteau,  Vernisset,  Leon  de  Lora,  Vernou,  all  the 
wittiest  men  in  Paris,  who  will  not  know  that  we  are  married. 
We  will  play  them  a  little  trick,  we  will  get  just  a  little  tipsy, 
and  Lisbeth  must  join  us.  I  want  her  to  study  matrimony ; 
Bixiou  shall  make  proposals  to  her,  and — and  enlighten  her 
darkness." 

For  two  hours  Madame  Marneffe  went  on  talking  nonsense, 
and  Crevel  made  this  judicious  reflection — 

**  How  can  so  light-hearted  a  creature  be  utterly  depraved? 
Feather-brained,  yes  !  but  wicked  ?     Nonsense  !  " 

''Well,  and  what  did  the  young  people  say  about  me?" 
said  Valerie  to  Crevel  at  a  moment  when  he  sat  down  by  her 
on  the  sofa.     '•'  All  sorts  of  horrors  ?  " 

"They  will  have  it  that  you  have  a  criminal  passion  for 
Wenceslas — you,  who  are  virtue  itself." 

"  I  love  him  !  I  should  think  so,  my  little  Wenceslas  !  " 
cried  Valerie,  calling  the  artist  to  her,  taking  his  face  in  her 
hands,  and  kissing  his  forehead.  ""A  poor  boy  with  no  for- 
tune, and  no  one  to  depend  on  !  Cast  off  by  a  carrotty  giraffe  ! 
What  do  you  expect,  Crevel  ?  Wenceslas  is  my  poet,  and  I 
love  him  as  if  he  were  my  own  child,  and  make  no  secret  of 
it.  Bah  !  your  virtuous  women  see  evil  everywhere  and  in 
everything.  Bless  me,  could  they  not  sit  by  a  man  without 
doing  wrong  ?  I  am  a  spoilt  child  who  has  had  all  it  ever 
wanted,  and  bonbons  no  longer  excite  me.  Poor  things  !  I 
am  sorry  for  them  ! 

"  And  who  slandered  me  so  ?  " 

"Victorin,"  said  Crevel. 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  stop  his  mouth,  the  odious  legal 
parrot !  with  the  story  of  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
and  his  mamma?  " 

"  Oh,  the  baroness  had  fled,"  said  Lisbeth. 

"They  had  better  take  care,  Lisbeth,"  said  Madame  Mar- 
neffe, with  a  frown.     "Either  they  will  receive  me  and  do 


30  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

it  handsomely,  and  come  to  their  stepmother's  house — all  the 
party  ! — or  I  will  see  them  in  lower  depths  than  the  baron  has 
reached,  and  you  may  tell  them  I  said  so  !  At  last  I  shall 
turn  nasty.  On  my  honor,  I  believe  that  evil  is  the  scythe 
with  which  to  cut  down  the  good." 

At  three  o'clock  Monsieur  Berthier,  Cardot's  successor, 
read  the  marriage-contract,  after  a  short  conference  with 
Crevel,  for  some  of  the  articles  were  made  conditional  on  the 
action  taken  by  Monsieur  and  Madame  Victorin  Hulot. 

Crevel  settled  on  his  wife  a  fortune  consisting,  in  the  first 
place,  of  forty  thousand  francs  in  dividends  on  specified  se- 
curities;  secondly,  of  the  house  and  all  its  contents;  and 
thirdly,  of  three  million  francs  not  invested.  He  also  as- 
signed to  his  wife  every  benefit  allowed  by  law ;  he  left  all 
the  property  free  of  duty ;  and  in  the  event  of  their  dying 
without  issue,  each  devised  to  the  survivor  the  whole  of  their 
property  and  real  estate. 

By  this  arrangement  the  fortune  left  to  Celestine  and  her 
husband  was  reduced  to  two  millions  of  francs  in  capital.  If 
Crevel  and  his  second  wife  should  have  children,  Celestine's 
share  was  limited  to  five  hundred  thousand  francs,  as  the  life- 
interest  in  the  rest  was  to  accrue  to  Valerie.  This  would  be 
about  the  ninth  part  of  his  whole  real  and  personal  estate. 

Lisbeth  returned  to  dine  in  the  Rue  Louis-le-Grand,  despair 
written  on  her  face.  She  explained  and  bewailed  the  terms 
of  the  marriage-contract,  but  found  Celestine  and  her  husband 
insensible  to  the  disastrous  news. 

"You  have  provoked  your  father,  my  children.  Madame 
MarnefTe  swears  that  you. shall  receive  Moftsieur  Crevel's  wife 
and  go  to  her  house,"  said  she. 

"  Never  !  "  said  Victorin. 

**  Never  !  "  said  Celestine. 

"Never!  "  said  Hortense. 

Lisbeth  was  possessed  by  the  wish  to  crush  the  haughty 
attitude  assumed  by  all  the  Hulots. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  31 

"She  seems  to  have  arms  that  she  can  turn  against  you," 
she  replied.  ''I  do  not  know  all  about  it,  but  I  shall  find 
out.  She  spoke  vaguely  of  some  history  of  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  in  which  Adeline  is  implicated." 

The  baroness  fell  gently  backward  on  the  sofa  she  was  sit- 
ting on  in  a  fit  of  hysterical  sobbing. 

"Go  there,  go,  my  children  !  "  she  cried.  "Receive  the 
woman  !  Monsieur  Crevel  is  an  infamous  wretch.  He  de- 
serves the  worst  punishment  imaginable.  Do  as  the  woman 
desires  you  !     She  is  a  monster — she  knows  all !  " 

After  gasping  out  these  words  with  tears  and  sobs,  Madame 
Hulot  collected  her  strength  to  go  to  her  room,  leaning  on 
her  daughter  and  Celestine. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  cried  Lisbeth,  left 
alone  with  Victorin. 

The  lawyer  stood  rigid,  in  very  natural  dismay,  and  did 
not  hear  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  Victorin?  " 

"I  am  horrified  !  "  said  he,  and  his  face  scowled  darkly. 
"  Woe  to  anybody  who  hurts  my  mother  !  I  have  no  scruples 
then.  I  would  crush  that  woman  like  a  viper  if  I  could  ! 
What,  does  she  attack  my  mother's  life,  my  mother's  honor?  " 

"  She  said,  but  do  not  repeat  it,  my  dear  Victorin — she  said 
you  should  all  fall  lower  even  than  your  father.  And  she 
scolded  Crevel  roundly  for  not  having  shut  your  mouths 
with  this  secret  that  seems  to  be  such  a  terror  to  my  dear 
Adeline." 

A  doctor  was  sent  for,  for  the  baroness  was  evidently  worse. 
He  gave  her  a  draught  containing. a  large  dose  of  opium,  and 
Adeline,  having  swallowed  it,  fell  into  a  deep  sleep ;  but  the 
whole  family  was  greatly  alarmed. 

Early  next  morning  Victorin  went  out,  and  on  his  way  to 
the  courts  called  at  the  prefecture  of  the  police,  where  he 
begged  Vautrin,  the  head  of  the  detective  department,  to  send 
him  Madame  dc  Saint-Estcve. 


32  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"We  are  forbidden,  monsieur,  to  meddle  in  your  affairs; 
but  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve  is  in  business,  and  will  attend  to 
your  orders,"  replied  this  famous  police-officer. 

On  his  return  home,  the  unhappy  lawyer  was  told  that  his 
mother's  reason  was  in  danger.  Doctor  Bianchon,  Doctor 
Larabit,  and  Professor  Angard  had  met  in  consultation,  and 
were  prepared  to  apply  heroic  remedies  to  hinder  the  rush  of 
blood  to  the  head.  At  the  moment  when  Victorin  was  listen- 
ing to  Doctor  Bianchon,  who  was  giving  him,  at  some  length, 
his  reasons  for  hoping  that  the  crisis  might  be  got  over,  the 
manservant  announced  that  a  client,  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve, 
was  waiting  to  see  him.  Victorin  left  Bianchon  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence  and  flew  downstairs  like  a  madman. 

"Is  there  any  hereditary  lunacy  in  the  family?"  said 
Bianchon,  addressing  Larabit. 

The  doctors  departed,  leaving  a  hospital  attendant,  in- 
structed by  them,  to  watch  Madame  Hulot. 

**A  whole  life  of  virtue  ! "  was  the  only  sentence  the 

sufferer  had  spoken  since  the  attack. 

Lisbeth  never  left  Adeline's  bedside;  she  sat  up  all  night, 
and  was  much  admired  by  the  two  younger  women. 

"Well,  my  dear  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve,"  said  Victorin, 
showing  the  dreadful  old  woman  into  his  study  and  carefully 
shutting  the  doors,  "  how  are  we  getting  on  !  " 

"Ah,  ha!  my  dear  friend,"  said  she,  looking  at  Victorin 
with  cold  irony.      "  So  you  have  thought  things  over  ?  " 

"  Have  you  done  anything?  " 

"Will  you  pay  fifty  thousand  francs?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Victorin,  "for  we  must  get  on.  Do  you 
know  tliat  by  one  single  phrase  that  woman  has  endangered 
my  mother's  life  and  reason?     So,  I  say,  get  on." 

"  We  have  got  on  !  "  replied  the  old  woman. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  Victorin,  with  a  gulp. 

"  Well,  you  do  not  cry  off  the  expenses?" 

"  On  the  contrary." 


COUSIN  BETTY.  33 

"  They  run  up  to  twenty-three  thousand  francs  already." 

Victorin  looked  helplessly  at  the  woman. 

"  Well,  could  we  hoodwink  you,  you,  one  of  the  shining 
lights  of  the  law  ?  "  said  she.  ••  For  that  sum  we  have  secured 
a  maid's  conscience  and  a  picture  by  Raphael.  It  is  not 
dear." 

Hulot,  still  bewildered,  sat  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"Well,  then,"  his  visitor  went  on,  "we  have  purchased 
the  honesty  of  Mademoiselle  Reine  Tousard,  a  damsel  from 
whom  Madame  Marneffe  has  no  secrets " 

*•'  I  understand  !  " 

"But  if  you  shy,  say  so." 

"  I  will  pay  blindfold,"  he  replied.  "  My  mother  has  told 
me  that  that  couple  deserve  the  worst  torments " 

"  The  rack  is  out  of  date,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"  You  answer  for  the  result  ?  " 

"Leave  it  all  to  me,"  said  the  woman  ;  "  your  vengeance 
is  simmerins;." 

She  looked  at  the  clock ;  it  was  six. 

"  Your  avenger  is  dressing ;  the  fires  are  lighted  at  the 
Rocher  de  Cancale ;  the  horses  are  pawing  the  ground  ;  my 
irons  are  getting  hot.  Oh,  I  know  your  Madame  Marneffe  by 
heart !  Everything  is  ready.  And  there  are  some  boluses  in 
the  rat-trap;  I  will  tell  you  to-morrow  morning  if  the  mouse 
is  poisoned.     I  believe  she  will  be;  good-evening,  my  sou." 

"  Good-by,  madame." 

"  Do  you  know  English?" 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen    '  Macbeth  '    in  English  ?  " 

"Yes."' 

"  Well,  my  son :  'All  hail !  Thou  shalt  be  King  hereafter.' 
That  is  to  say,  you  shall  come  into  your  inheritance,"  said  the 
dreadful  old  witch,  foreseen  by  Shakespeare,  and  who  seemed 
to  know  her  author. 

She  left  Hulot  amazed  at  the  door  of  his  study. 
3 


S4  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

"The  consultation  is  for  to-morrow!"  said  she,  with  the 
gracious  air  of  a  regular  client. 

She  saw  two  persons  coming,  and  wished  to  pass  in  their 
eyes  as  a  pinchbeck  countess. 

"  What  impudence  !  "  thought  Hulot,  bowing  to  his  pre- 
tended client. 

Baron  Montez  de  Montejanos  was  a  lion,  but  a  lion  not  ac- 
counted for.  Fashionable  Paris,  Paris  of  the  turf  and  of  the 
town,  admired  the  ineffable  vests  of  this  foreign  gentleman, 
his  spotless  patent-leather  shoes,  his  incomparable  canes,  his 
much-coveted  horses,  and  the  negro  servants  who  rode  the 
horses  and  who  were  entirely  slaves  and  most  consumedly 
thrashed. 

His  fortune  was  well  known  ;  he  had  a  credit  account  up  to 
seven  hundred  thousand  francs  in  the  great  banking  house  of 
du  Tillet ;  but  he  was  always  seen  alone.  When  he  went  to 
"first  nights,"  he  was  in  a  stall.  He  frequented  no  drawing- 
rooms.  He  had  never  given  his  arm  to  a  girl  on  the  streets. 
His  name  could  not  be  coupled  with  that  of  any  pretty  woman 
of  the  world.  To  pass  his  time  he  played  whist  at  the  Jockey- 
Club.  The  world  was  reduced  to  calumny,  or,  which  it  thought 
funnier,  to  laughing  at  his  peculiarities  ;  he  went  by  the  name 
of  Combabus. 

Bixiou,  Leon  de  Lora,  Lousteau,  Florine,  Mademoiselle 
Heloise  Brisetout,  and  Nathan,  supping  one  evening  with  the 
notorious  Carabine,  with  a  large  party  of  lions  and  lionesses, 
had  invented  this  name  with  an  excessively  burlesque  ex- 
planation. Massol,  as  being  in  the  Council  of  State,  and 
Claud  Vignon,  erewhile  professor  of  Greek,  had  related  to  the 
ignorant  damsels  the  famous  anecdote,  preserved  in  Rollin's 
"Ancient  History,"  concerning  Combabus,  that  voluntary 
Abelard  who  was  placed  in  charge  of  the  wife  of  a  King  of 
Assyria,  Persia,  Bactria,  Mesopotamia,  and  other  geographical 
divisions  peculiar  to  old  Professor  du  Bocage,  who  continued 


COUSLV  BETTY.  35 

the  work  of  d'Anville,  the  creator  of  the  East  of  antiquity. 
This  nickname,  which  gave  Carabine's  guests  laughter  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  gave  rise  to  a  series  of  over-free  jests,  to 
which  the  Academy  could  not  award  the  Montyon  prize ;  but 
among  which  tiie  name  was  taken  up,  to  rest  thenceforth  on 
the  curly  mane  of  the  handsome  baron,  called  by  Josepha  the 
splendid  Brazilian — as  one  might  say  a  splendid  Catoxantha. 

Carabine,  the  loveliest  of  her  tribe,  whose  delicate  beauty 
and  amusing  wit  had  snatched  the  sceptre  of  the  thirteenth 
arrondissement  from  the  hands  of  Mademoiselle  Turquet,  bet- 
ter known  by  the  name  of  Malaga — Mademoiselle  Seraph ine 
Sinet  (this  was  her  real  name)  was  to  du  Tillet  the  banker 
what  Josepha  Mirah  was  to  the  Due  d'Herouville. 

Now,  on  the  morning  of  the  very  day  when  Madame  de 
Saint-Esteve  had  prophesied  success  to  Yictorin,  Carabine  had 
said  to  du  Tillet  at  about  seven  o'clock — 

"  If  you  want  to  be  very  nice,  you  will  give  me  a  dinner  at 
the  Rocher  de  Cancale  and  bring  Combabus.  We  want  to 
know,  once  for  all,  whether  he  has  a  mistress.  I  bet  that  he 
has,  and  I  should  like  to  win." 

*'He  is  still  at  the  Hotel  des  Princes;  I  will  call,"  replied 
du  Tillet.  "  We  will  have  some  fun.  Ask  all  the  youngsters 
—the  youngster  Bixiou,  the  youngster  Lora,  in  short,  all  the 
clan." 

At  half-past  seven  that  evening,  in  the  handsomest  room  of 
the  restaurant  where  all  Europe  has  dined,  a  splendid  silver 
service  was  spread,  made  on  purpose  for  entertainments  where 
vanity  pays  the  bill  in  bank-notes.  A  flood  of  light  fell  in 
ripples  on  the  chased  rims;  waiters,  whom  a  provincial  might 
have  taken  for  diplomatists  but  for  their  age,  stood  solemnly, 
as  knowing  themselves  to  be  overpaid. 

Five  guests  had  arrived,  and  were  waiting  for  nine  more. 
There  were  first  and  foremost  Bixiou,  still  flourishing  in  1843, 
the  salt  of  every  intellectual  dish,  always  supplied  with  fresh 
wit — a  phenomenon  as  rare  in  Paris  as  virtue  is  :  I.eon  de 


36  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

Lora,  the  greatest  living  painter  of  landscape  and  the  sea,  who 
has  this  great  advantage  over  all  his  rivals,  that  he  has  never 
fallen  below  his  first  successes.  The  courtesans  could  never 
dispense  with  these  two  kings  of  ready  wit.  No  supper,  no 
dinner,  was  possible  without  them. 

Seraphine  Sinet,  called  Carabine,  as  the  mistress  en  iitre 
(notoriously)  of  the  amphitryon,  was  one  of  the  first  to  arrive; 
and  the  brilliant  lighting  showed  off  her  shoulders,  unrivaled 
in  Paris,  her  throat,  as  round  as  if  turned  in  a  lathe,  without 
a  crease,  her  saucy  face,  and  dress  of  satin  brocade  in  two 
shades  of  blue,  trimmed  with  English  lace,  costing  enough  to 
have  fed  a  whole  village  for  a  month. 

Pretty  Jenny  Cadine,  not  acting  that  evening,  came  in  a 
dress  of  incredible  splendor  ;  her  portrait  is  too  well  known 
to  need  any  description.  A  party  is  always  a  Longchamps 
of  evening  dress  for  these  ladies,  each  anxious  to  win  the  prize 
for  her  millionaire  by  thus  announcing  to  her  rivals — 

**This  is  the  price  I  am  worth  !  " 

A  third  woman,  evidently  at  the  initial  stage  of  her  career, 
gazed,  almost  shamefaced,  at  the  luxury  of  her  two  established 
and  wealthy  companions.  Simply  dressed  in  white  cashmere 
trimmed  with  blue,  her  head  had  been  dressed  with  real 
flowers  by  a  coiffeur  of  the  old-fashioned  school,  whose  awk- 
ward hands  had  unconsciously  given  the  charm  of  ineptitude 
to  her  fair  hair.  Still  unaccustomed  to  any  finery,  she  showed 
the  timidity — to  use  a  hackneyed  phrase — inseparable  from  a 
first  appearance.  She  had  come  from  Valognes  to  find  in 
Paris  some  use  for  her  distracting  youthfulness,  her  innocence, 
that  might  have  stirred  the  senses  of  a  dying  man,  and  her 
beauty,  worthy  to  hold  its  own  with  any  that  Normandy  has 
ever  supplied  to  the  theatres  of  the  capital.  The  lines  of  that 
unblemished  face  were  the  ideal  of  angelic  purity.  Her  milk- 
white  skin  reflected  the  light  like  a  mirror.  The  delicate  pink 
in  her  cheeks  might  have  been  laid  on  with  a  brush.  She  was 
called  Cydalise,  and,  as  will  be  seen,  she  was  an  important 


COUSIN  BETTY.  37 

pawn  in  the  game    played  by  Ma'ame  Nourrisson  to  defeat 
Madame  Marneffe. 

*'  Your  arm  is  not  a  match  for  your  name,  my  child,"  said 
Jenny  Cadine,  to  whom  Carabine  had  introduced  this  master- 
piece of  sixteen,  having  brought  her  with  her. 

And,  in  fact,  Cydalise  displayed  to  public  admiration  a  fine 
pair  of  arms,  smooth  and  satiny,  but  red  with  healthy  young 
blood. 

"  What  do  you  want  for  her?"  said  Jenny  Cadine,  in  an 
undertone  to  Carabine. 

"A  fortune." 

''What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her?" 

"  Well — Madame  Combabus  !  " 

"  And  what  are  you  to  get  for  such  a  job  ?  " 

"Guess." 

'  *  A  service  of  plate  ?  ' ' 

"I  have  three." 

"Diamonds?" 

"  I  am  selling  them." 

"  A  green  monkey?  " 

*'  No.     A  picture  by  Raphael." 

"  What  magsfot  is  that  in  vour  brain?  " 

"Josepha  makes  me  sick  with  her  pictures,"  said  Cara- 
bine.     "  I  want  some  better  than  hers." 

Du  Tillet  came  with  the  Brazilian,  the  hero  of  the  feast ; 
the  Due  de  Herouville  followed  with  Josepha.  The  singer 
wore  a  plain  velvet  gown,  but  she  had  on  a  necklace  worth  a 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  francs,  pearls  hardly  distin- 
guishable from  her  skin  like  white  camellia  petals.  She  had 
stuck  one  scarlet  camellia  in  her  black  hair — a  patch — the 
effect  was  dazzling,  and  she  had  amused  herself  by  putting 
eleven  rows  of  pearls  on  each  arm.  As  she  shook  hands  with 
Jenny  Cadine,  the  actress  said  :   "  Lend  me  your  mittens  !  " 

Josepha  unclasped  them  one  by  one  and  handed  them  to 
her  friend  on  a  plate. 


88  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

"There's  style!"  said  Carabine.  ''Quite  the  duchess! 
You  have  robbed  the  ocean  to  dress  the  nymph,  Monsieur  le 
Due,"  she  added,  turning  to  the  little  Due  d'Herouville. 

The  actress  took  two  of  the  bracelets  ;  she  clasped  the  other 
twenty  on  the  singer's  beautiful  arms,  which  she  kissed. 

Lousteau,  the  literary  cadger,  la  Palferine  and  Malaga, 
Massol,  Vauvinet,  and  Theodore  Gaillard,  a  proprietor  of  one 
of  the  most  important  political  newspapers,  completed  the 
party.  The  Due  d'Herouville,  polite  to  everybody,  as  a  great 
gentleman  knows  how  to  be,  greeted  the  Comte  de  la  Pal- 
ferine with  the  particular  nod  which,  while  it  does  not  imply 
either  esteem  or  intimacy,  conveys  to  all  the  world  :  "  We  are 
of  the  same  race,  the  same  blood — equals  !  "  And  this  greet- 
ing, the  shibboleth  of  the  aristocracy,  was  invented  to  be  the 
despair  of  the  upper  citizen  class. 

Carabine  placed  Combabus  on  her  left  and  the  Due  d'He- 
rouville on  her  right.  Cydalise  was  next  to  the  Brazilian,  and 
beyond  her  was  Bixiou.     Malaga  sat  by  the  duke. 

Oysters  appeared  at  seven  o'clock  ;  at  eight  they  were  drink- 
ing iced  punch.  Every  one  is  familiar  with  the  bill  of  fare  of 
such  a  banquet.  By  nine  o'clock  they  were  talking  as  people 
talk  after  forty-two  bottles  of  various  wines,  drunk  bv  fourteen 
persons.  Dessert  was  on  the  table,  the  odious  dessert  of  the 
month  of  April.  Of  all  the  party,  the  only  one  affected  by 
the  heady  atmosphere  was  Cydalise,  who  was  humming  a  tune. 
None  of  the  other  guests,  with  the  exception  of  the  poor 
country  girl,  had  lost  their  reason  ;  the  drinkers  and  the  women 
were  the  experienced  elite  of  the  society  that  sups.  Their  wits 
were  bright,  their  eyes  glistened,  but  with  no  loss  of  intelli- 
gence, though  the  talk  drifted  into  satire,  anecdote,  and 
gossip.  Conversation,  hitherto  confined  to  the  inevitable 
circle  of  racing,  horses,  hammerings  on  the  Bourse,  the  dif- 
ferent occupations  of  the  lions  themselves,  and  the  scandals  of 
the  town,  showed  a  tendency  to  break  up  into  intimate  tHes-a- 
iele,  the  dialogues  of  two  hearts. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  39 

And  at  this  staf;;e,  at  a  signal  from  Carabine  to  Leon  tie 
Lora,  Bixiou,  la  Palferine,  •'  and  du  Tillet,  love  came  under 
discussion. 

"A  doctor  ir  good  society  never  talks  of  medicine,  true 
nobles  never  speak  of  their  ancestors,  men  of  genius  do  not 
discuss  their  works,"  said  Josepha  ;  "  Thy  should  we  talk  busi- 
ness? If  I  got  the  opera  put  off  ir  order  to  dine  here,  it  was 
assuredly  not  to  work.  So  let  us  change  the  subject,  dear 
children." 

"But  we  are  speaking  of  real  Icve.  my  beauty,"  said  Ma- 
laga, "  of  the  love  that  makes  a  man  fling  all  to  the  dogs — 
father,  mother,  wife,  children — and  retire  to  Clichy." 

**  Talk  away,  then,  'don't  know  yer,'  "  said  the  singer. 

The  slang  words,  borrowed  from  the  street  Arab,  and  spoken 
by  these  women,  may  be  a  poem  on  their  lips,  helped  by  the 
expression  of  the  eyes  and  face. 

"What,  do  not  I  love  you,  Josepha?"  said  the  duke  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  You,  perhaps,  may  love  me  truly,"  said  she  in  his  ear, 
and  she  smiled.  "But  I  do  not  love  you  in  the  way  they  de- 
scribe, with  such  love  as  makes  the  world  dark  in  the  absence 
of  the  man  beloved.  You  are  delightful  to  me,  useful — but 
not  indispensable ;  and  if  you  were  to  throw  me  over  to-mor- 
row, I  could  have  three  dukes  for  one." 

"  Is  true  love  to  be  found  in  Paris?"  asked  Leon  de  Lora. 
"  Men  have  not  even  time  to  make  a  fortune  ;  how  can  they 
give  themselves  over  to  true  love,  which  swamps  a  man  as 
water  melts  sugar  ?  A  man  must  be  enormously  rich  to  in- 
dulge in  it,  for  love  annihilates  him — for  instance,  like  our 
Brazilian  friend  over  there.  As  I  said  long  ago,  '  Extremes 
defeat — themselves.'  A  true  lever  is  like  a  eunuch;  women 
have  ceased  to  exist  for  him.  He  is  mystical ;  he  is  like  the 
true  Christian,  an  anchorite  of  the  desert  !  See  our  noble 
Brazilian." 

*  See  "  A  Prince  of  Bohemia." 


40  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

Every  one  at  table  looked  at  Henri  Montez  de  Montejanos, 
who  was  shy  at  finding  every  eye  centred  on  him. 

"  He  has  been  feeding  there  for  an  hour  without  discover- 
ing, any  more  than  an  ox  at  pasture,  that  he  is  sitting  next  to 
— I  will  not  say,  in  such  company,  the  loveliest — but  the 
freshest  woman  in  all  Paris." 

"  Everything  is  fresh  here,  even  the  fish  ;  it  is  what  the 
house  is  famous  for,"  said  Carabine. 

Baron  Montez  looked  good-naturedly  at  the  painter,  and 
said — 

"Very  good!  I  drink  to  your  very  good  health,"  and 
bowing  to  Leon  de  Lora,  he  lifted  his  glass  of  port  wine  and 
drank  it  with  much  dignitv. 

"  Are  you  then  truly  in  love  ?  "  asked  Malaga  of  her  neigh- 
bor, thus  interpreting  his  toast. 

The  Brazilian  refilled  his  glass,  bowed  to  Carabine,  and 
drank  again. 

"  To  the  lady's  health  then  !  "  said  the  courtesan,  in  such 
a  droll  tone  that  Lora,  du  Tillet,  and  Bixiou  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. 

The  Brazilian  sat  like  a  bronze  statue.  This  impassibility 
provoked  Carabine.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  Montez 
was  devoted  to  Madame  MarnefiFe,  but  she  had  not  expected 
this  dogged  fidelitv,  this  obstinate  silence  of  conviction. 

A  woman  is  as  often  gauged  by  the  attitude  of  her  lover  as 
a  man  is  judged  from  the  tone  of  his  mistress.  The  baron  was 
proud  of  his  attachment  to  Valerie,  and  of  hers  to  him  ;  his 
smile  had,  to  these  experienced  connoisseurs,  a  touch  of  irony; 
he  was  really  grand  to  look  upon  ;  wine  had  not  flushed  him  ; 
and  his  eyes,  with  their  peculiar  lustre  as  of  tarnished  gold, 
kept  the  secrets  of  his  soul.  Even  the  knowing  Carabine  said 
to  herself — 

"What  a  woman  she  must  be  !  How  she  has  sealed  up 
that  heart  !  ' ' 

**  He  is  a  rock  !  "  said  Bixiou  in  an  undertone,  imagining 


COUSIN  BETTY.  41 

that  tlie  whole  thing  was  a  practical  joke,  and  never  suspecting 
the  importance  to  Carabine  of  reducing  this  so  obdurate  a 
fortress. 

While  this  conversation,  apparently  so  frivolous,  was  going 
on  at  Carabine's  right,  the  discussion  of  love  was  continued 
on  her  left  between  the  Due  d'Herouville,  Lousteau,  Josepha, 
Jenny  Cadine,  and  Massol.  They  were  wondering  whether 
such  rare  phenomena  were  the  result  of  passion,  obstinacy,  or 
affection.  Josepha,  bored  to  death  by  it  all,  tried  to  change 
the  subject. 

"You  are  talking  of  what  you  know  nothing  about.  Is 
there  a  man  among  you  who  ever  loved  a  woman — a  woman 
beneath  him — enough  to  squander  his  fortune  and  his  chil- 
dren's, to  sacrifice  his  future  and  blight  his  past,  to  risk  going 
to  the  hulks  for  robbing  the  Government,  to  kill  an  uncle  and 
a  brother,  to  let  his  eyes  be  so  effectually  blinded  that  he  did 
not  even  perceive  that  it  was  done  to  hinder  his  seeing  the 
abyss  into  which,  as  a  crowning  jest,  he  was  being  driven  ? 
Du  Tillet  has  a  cash-box  under  the  left  breast ;  Leon  de  Lora 
has  his  wit;  Bixiou  would  laugh  at  himself  for  a  fool  if  he 
loved  any  one  but  himself;  Massol  has  a  minister's  portfolio 
in  the  place  of  a  heart ;  Lousteau  can  have  nothing  but  viscera, 
since  he  could  endure  to  be  thrown  over  by  Madame  de  Bau- 
draye ;  Monsieur  le  Due  is  too  rich  to  prove  his  love  by  his 
ruin  ;  Vauvinet  is  not  in  it — I  do  not  regard  a  bill-broker  as 
one  of"  the  human  race;  and  you  have  never  loved,  nor  I,  nor 
Jenny  Cadine,  nor  Malaga.  For  my  part,  I  never  but  once 
even  saw  the  phenomenon  I  have  described.  It  was,"  and 
she  turned  to  Jenny  Cadine,  "  that  poor  Baron  Hulot,  whom 
I  am  going  to  advertise  for  like  a  lost  dog,  for  I  want  to  find 
him." 

"Oh,  ho!"  said  Carabine  to  herself,  and  looking  keenly 
at  Josepha,  "  then  Madame  Nourrisson  has  two  pictures  by 
Raphael,  since  Josepha  is  playing  my  hand  ! " 

"Poor  fellow,"    said  Vauvinet,   "he  was   a   great    man' 


42  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

Magnificent !  And  what  a  figure,  what  a  style,  the  air  of 
Francis  I.  !  What  a  volcano  !  and  how  full  of  ingenious 
ways  of  getting  money  !  He  must  be  looking  for  it  now, 
wherever  he  is,  and  I  make  no  doubt  he  extracts  it  even  from 
the  walls  built  of  bones  that  you  may  see  in  the  suburbs  of 
Paris  near  the  city  gates " 

"And  all  that,"  said  Bixiou,  "  for  that  little  Madame  Mar- 
neffe  !     There  is  a  precious  wanton  for  you  !  " 

"She  is  just  going  to  marry  my  friend  Crevel,"  said  du 
Tillet. 

"And  she  is  madly  in  love  with  my  friend  Steinbock," 
Leon  de  Lora  put  in. 

These  three  phrases  were  like  so  many  pistol-shots  fired 
point-blank  at  Montez.  He  turned  white,  and  the  shock  was 
so  painful  that  he  rose  with  difficulty. 

"You  are  a  set  of  blackguards!  "  cried  he.  "You  have 
no  right  to  speak  the  name  of  an  honest  woman  in  the  same 
breath  with  those  of  fallen  creatures — above  all,  not  to  make 
it  a  mark  for  your  slander  !  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  unanimous  bravos  and  applause. 
Bixiou,  Leon  de  Lora,  Vauvinet,  du  Tillet,  and  Massol  set 
the  example,  and  there  was  a  chorus. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  Emperor  !  "  said  Bixiou. 

"Crown  him  !   crown  him  !  "  cried  Vauvinet. 

"  Three  groans  for  such  a  good  dog  !  Hurrah  for  Brazil !  " 
cried  Lousteau. 

"So  my  copper-colored  baron,  it  is  our  Valerie  that  you 
love;  and  you  are  not  yet  disgusted?"  said  Leon  de  Lora. 

"His  remark  is  not  parliamentary,  but  it  is  grand  !  "  ob- 
served Massol. 

"But  my  most  delightful  customer,"  said  du  Tillet,  "you 
were  recommended  to  me ;  I  am  your  banker ;  your  inno- 
cence reflects  on  my  credit." 

"Yes,  tell    me,    you  who   are  a  reasonable  creature " 

said  the  Brazilian  to  the  banker. 


COUSIN  BETl^Y.  43 

"Thanks  on  behalf  of  the  company,"  said  Bixiou  with  a 
bow, 

"Tell  me  the  real  facts,"  Montez  went  on,  heedless  of 
Bixiou's  interjection. 

"  Well,  then,"  replied  du  Tillet,  "  I  have  the  honor  to  tell 
you  that  I  am  asked  to  the  Crevel  wedding." 

"  Ah,  ha!  Combabus  holds  a  brief  for  Madame  Marneffe!  " 
said  Josepha,  rising  solemnly. 

She  went  round  to  Montez  with  a  tragic  look,  patted  him 
kindly  on  the  head,  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  comical 
admiration,  and  nodded  sagely. 

"Hulot  was  the  first  instance  of  love  through  fire  and 
water,"  said  she;  "this  is  the  second.  But  it  ought  not  to 
count,  as  it  comes  from  the  tropics." 

Montez  had  dropped  into  his  chair  again,  when  Josepha 
gently  touched  his  forehead  and  looked  at  du  Tillet  as  he 
said — 

"  If  I  am  the  victim  of  a  Paris  jest,  if  you  only  wanted  to 
get  at  my  secret — "  and  he  sent  a  flashing  look  round  the 
table,  embracing  all  the  guests  in  a  flaming  glance  that  blazed 
with  the  sun  of  Brazil — "  I  beg  of  you  as  a  favor  to  tell  me  so," 
he  went  on,  in  a  tone  of  almost  childlike  entreaty;  "but  do 
not  vilify  the  woman  I  love." 

"  Nay,  indeed,"  said  Carabine  in  a  low  voice  ;  "  but  if,  on 
the  contrary,  you  are  shamefully  betrayed,  cheated,  tricked 
by  Valerie,  if  I  should  give  you  the  proof  in  an  hour,  in  my 
own  house,  what  then  ?  " 

"I  cannot  tell  you  before  all  these  lagos,"  said  the 
Brazilian. 

Carabine  understood  him  to  say  magots  (baboons). 

"Well,  well,  say  no  more!"  she  replied,  smiling.  "Do 
not  make  yourself  a  laughing-stock  for  all  the  wittiest  men  in 
Paris;  come  to  my  house,  we  will  talk  it  over." 

Montez  was  crushed.  "Proofs,"  he  stammered;  "con- 
sider  " 


44  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

"Only  too  many,"  replied  Carabine;  "and  if  the  mere 
suspicion  hits  you  so  hard,  I  fear  for  your  reason." 

"Is  this  creature  obstinate,  I  ask  you?  He  is  worse  than 
the  late  lamented  King  of  Holland  !  I  say,  Lousteau,  Bixiou, 
Massol,  all  the  crew  of  you,  are  you  not  invited  to  breakfast 
with  Madame  Marneffe  the  day  after  to-morrow?"  said  Leon 
de  Lora. 

"yiz,"  said  du  Tillet ;  "I  have  the  honor  of  assuring  you, 
baron,  that  if  you  had  by  any  chance  thought  of  marrying 
Madame  Marneffe,  you  are  thrown  out  like  a  bill  in  Parlia- 
ment, beaten  by  a  blackball  called  Crevel.  My  friend,  my 
old  comrade  Crevel,  has  eighty  thousand  francs  a  year  ;  and 
you,  I  suppose,  did  not  show  such  a  good  hand,  for  if  you 
had,  you,  I  imagine,  would  have  been  preferred." 

Montez  listened  with  a  half-absent,  half-smiling  expression, 
which  struck  them  all  with  terror. 

At  this  moment  the  head-waiter  came  to  whisper  to  Cara- 
bine that  a  lady,  a  relation  of  hers,  was  in  the  drawing-room 
and  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

Carabine  rose  and  went  out  to  find  Madame  Nourrisson, 
decently  veiled  with  black  lace. 

"Well,  child,  am  I  to  go  to  your  house?  Has  he  taken 
the  hook?" 

"Yes,  mother;  and  the  pistol  is  so  fully  loaded  that  my 
only  fear  is  that  it  will  burst,"  said  Carabine. 

About  an  hour  later,  Montez,  Cydalise,  and  Carabine,  re- 
turning from  the  Rocher  de  Cancale,  entered  Carabine's  little 
sitting-room  in  the  Rue-Saint-Georges.  Madame  Nourrisson 
was  sitting  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire. 

"  Here  is  my  worthy  old  aunt,"  said  Carabine. 

"  Yes,  child,  I  came  in  person  to  fetch  my  little  allowance. 
You  would  have  forgotten  me,  though  you  are  kind-hearted, 
and  I  have  some  bills  to  pay  to-morrow.  Buying  and  selling 
clothes,  I  am   always  short  of  cash.     Who  is   this  at  your 


COUSIN  BETTY.  45 

heels  ?     The  gentleman  looks  very  much  put  out  about  some- 
thing." 

The  dreadful  Madame  Nourrisson,  at  this  moment  so  com- 
pletely disguised  as  to  look  like  a  respectable  old  body,  rose 
to  embrace  Carabine,  one  of  the  hundred  and  odd  courtesans 
she  had  launched  on  their  horrible  career  of  vice. 

"  He  is  an  Othello  who  is  not  to  be  taken  in,  whom  I  have 
the  honor  of  introducing  to  you — Monsieur  le  Baron  Mont^z 
de  Montejanos." 

"  Oh  !  I  have  heard  him  talked  about,  and  know  his  name. 
You  are  nicknamed  Combabus,  because  you  love  but  one 
woman  ;  and,  in  Paris,  that  is  the  same  as  loving  no  one  at 
all.  x\nd  is  it  by  chance  the  object  of  your  affections  who  is 
fretting  you?  Madame  MarneiTe,  Crevel's  woman?  I  tell 
you  what,  my  dear  sir,  you  may  bless  your  stars  instead  of  curs- 
ing them.  She  is  a  good-for-nothing  baggage,  is  that  little 
woman.     I  know  her  tricks  !  " 

"Get  along,"  said  Carabine,  into  whose  hand  Madame 
Nourrisson  had  slipped  a  note  while  embracing  her,  "  you  do 
not  know  your  Brazilians.  They  are  wrong-headed  creatures 
that  insist  on  being  impaled  through  the  heart.  The  more 
jealous  they  are,  the  more  jealous  they  want  to  be.  Mosieur 
talks  of  dealing  death  all  round,  but  he  will  kill  nobody  be- 
cause he  is  in  love.  However,  I  have  brought  him  here  to 
give  him  the  proofs  of  his  discomfiture,  which  I  have  got 
from  that  little  Steinbock." 

Montez  was  drunk  ;  he  listened  as  if  the  women  were  talking 
about  somebody  else. 

Carabine  went  to  take  off  her  velvet  wrap,  and  read  a.  fac- 
simile of  a  note,  as  follows  : 

"Dear  Puss: — He  dines  with  Popinot  this  evening,  and 
will  come  to  fetch  me  from  the  opera  at  eleven.  I  shall  go 
out  at  about  half-past  five  and  count  on  finding  you  at  our 
paradise.     Order  dinner  to  be  sent  in  from  the  Maison  d'Qr. 


46  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

Dress,  so  as  to  be  able  to  take  me  to  the  opera.  We  shall 
have  four  hours  to  ourselves.  Return  this  note  to  me ;  not 
that  your  Valerie  doubts  you — I  would  give  you  my  life,  my 
fortune,  and  my  honor,  but  I  am  afraid  of  the  tricks  of 
chance." 

"  Here,  baron,  this  is  the  note  sent  to  Count  Steinbock 
this  morning ;  read  the  address.  The  original  document  is 
burnt." 

Montez  turned  the  note  over  and  over,  recognized  the 
writing,  and  was  struck  by  a  rational  idea,  which  is  sufficient 
evidence  of  the  disorder  of  his  brain. 

"And,  pray,"  said  he,  looking  at  Carabine,  "what  object 
have  you  in  torturing  my  heart,  for  you  must  have  paid  very 
dear  for  the  privilege  of  having  the  note  in  your  possession 
long  enough  to  get  it  lithographed  ?  " 

"Foolish  man!  "  said  Carabine,  at  a  nod  from  Madame 
Nourrisson,  "don't  you  see  that  poor  child  Cydalise — a  girl 
of  sixteen,  who  has  been  pining  for  you  these  three  months, 
till  she  has  lost  her  appetite  for  food  or  drink,  and  who  is 
heartbroken  because  you  have  never  even  so  much  as  glanced 
at  her?" 

Cydalise  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  emotion — "She  is  furious,"  Carabine  went  on, 
"  though  she  looks  as  if  butter  would  not  melt  in  her  mouth, 
furious  to  see  the  man  she  adores  duped  by  a  villainous  hussy  ; 
she  would  kill  Valerie " 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  the  Brazilian,  "that  is  my  busi- 
ness!" 

"What,  killing?"  said  old  Nourrisson.  "No,  my  son, 
we  don't  do  that  here  nowadays." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Montez,  "  I  am  not  a  native  of  this  country. 
I  live  in  a  parish  where  I  can  laugh  at  your  laws ;  and  if  you 
give  me  proof " 

"  Well,  that  note.     Is  that  nothing  ?  " 


COUSIN  BETTY.  47 

"No,"  said  the  Brazilian.  "I  do  not  believe  in  the  writ- 
ing.    I  must  see  for  myself." 

"See?"  cried  Carabine,  taking  the  hint  at  once  from  a 
gesture  of  her  supposed  aunt.  "  You  shall  see,  my  dear  tiger, 
all  you  can  wish  to  see — on  one  condition." 

"And  that  is?" 

"Look  at  Cydalise." 

At  a  wink  from  Madame  Nourrisson,  Cydalise  cast  a  tender 
look  at  the  baron. 

"  Will  you  be  good  to  her?  Will  you  make  her  a  home  ?  " 
asked  Carabine.  "  A  girl  of  such  beauty  is  well  worth  a 
house  and  a  carriage !  It  would  be  a  monstrous  shame  to 
leave  her  to  walk  the  streets.  And  beside — she  is  in  debt. 
How  much  do  you  owe  ?  "  asked  Carabine,  nipping  Cydalise's 
arm. 

"She  is  worth  all  she  can  get,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"The  point  is  that  she  can't  find  a  buyer." 

"Listen  !  "  cried  Montez,  fully  aware  at  last  of  this  master- 
piece of  womankind,  "you  will  show  me  Valerie " 

"And  Count  Steinbeck.  Certainly  !  "  said  Madame  Nour- 
risson. 

For  tlie  past  ten  minutes  the  old  woman  had  been  watching 
the  Brazilian  ;  she  saw  that  he  was  an  instrument  tuned  up  to 
the  murderous  pitch  she  needed  ;  and,  above  all,  so  effectually 
blinded  that  he  would  never  heed  who  had  led  him  on  to  it, 
and  she  spoke : 

"  Cydalise,  my  Brazilian  jewel,  is  my  niece,  so  her  concerns 
are  partly  mine.  All  this  catastrophe  will  be  the  work  of  a 
few  minutes,  for  a  friend  of  mine  lets  the  furnished  room  to 
Count  Steinbock  where  Valerie  is  at  this  moment  takins:  coffee 
— a  queer  sort  of  coffee,  but  she  calls  it  her  coffee.  So  let  us 
understand  each  other,  Brazil  !  I  like  Brazil,  it  is  a  hot 
country. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  my  niece  ?  " 

"  You  old  ostrich,"  said  Montez,  the  plumes  in  the  woman's 


48  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

bonnet  catching  his  eye,  "  you  interrupted  me.  ii  you  show 
me — if  I  see  Valerie  and  that  artist  together ' ' 

"As  you  would  wish  to  be "  said  Carabine;  "that  is 

understood." 

"  Then  I  will  take  this  girl  and  carry  her  away " 

"  Where  !  "  asked  Carabine. 

"To  Brazil,"  replied  the  baron.  "I  will  make  her  my 
wife.  My  uncle  left  me  ten  leagues  square  of  entailed  estate  ; 
that  is  how  I  still  have  that  house  and  home.  I  have  a  hun- 
dred negroes — nothing  but  negroes  and  negresses  and  negro 
brats,  all  bought  by  my  uncle " 

"Nephew  to  a  nigger-driver,"  said  Carabine,  with  a  grim- 
ace. "That  needs  some  consideration.  Cydalise,  child,  are 
you  fond  of  the  blacks?" 

"Pooh!  Carabine,  no  nonsense,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  The  deuce  is  in  it  !     Monsieur  and  I  are  doing  business." 

"  If  I  take  up  another  Frenchwoman,  I  mean  to  have  her  to 
myself,"  the  Brazilian  went  on.  "  I  warn  you,  mademoiselle, 
I  am  king  there,  and  not  a  constitutional  king.  I  am  czar; 
my  subjects  are  mine  by  purchase,  and  no  one  can  escape  from 
my  kingdom,  which  is  a  hundred  leagues  from  any  human  set- 
tlement, hemmed  in  by  savages  on  the  interior,  and  divided 
from  the  sea  by  a  wilderness  as  wide  as  France." 

"  I  should  prefer  a  garret  here." 

"So  thought  I,"  said  Montez,  "since  I  sold  all  my  land 
and  possessions  at  Rio  de  Janeiro  to  come  back  to  Madame 
Marnefife." 

"A  man  does  not  make  such  a  voyage  for  nothing,"  re- 
marked Madame  Nourrisson.  "  You  have  a  right  to  look  for 
love  for  your  own  sake,  particularly  being  so  good-looking. 
Oh,  he  is  very  handsome  !  "  said  she  to  Carabine. 

"  Very  handsome,  handsomer  than  the  Postilion  de  Long- 
jumeau,"  replied  the  courtesan. 

Cydalise  took  the  Brazilian's  hand,  but  he  released  it  as 
politely  as  he  could. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  49 

"I  came  back  for  Madame  Marneffe,"  the  man  went  on 
where  he  had  left  off,  "  but  you  do  not  know  why  I  was  three 
years  thinking  about  it." 

"  No,  savage,"  said  Carabine. 

"Well,  she  had  so  repeatedly  told  me  that  she  longed  to 
live  with  me  alone  in  a  desert " 

"Oh,  ho!  he  is  not  a  savage  after  all,"  cried  Carabine, 
with  a  shout  of  laughter.  "  He  is  of  the  highly  civilized  tribe 
of  Flats!  " 

"She  had  told  me  this  so  often,"  Montez  went  on,  regard- 
less of  the  courtesan's  mockery,  "that  I  had  a  lovely  house 
fitted  up  in  the  heart  of  that  vast  estate,  I  came  back  to 
France  to  fetch  Valerie,  and  the  very  first  evening  I  beheld 
her " 

"  '  Beheld  her '  is  very  proper  !  "  said  Carabine.  "  I  will 
remember  it." 

"  She  told  me  to  wait  till  that  wretched  Marneffe  was  dead  ; 
and  I  agreed,  and  forgave  her  for  having  admitted  the  atten- 
tions of  Hulot.  Whether  the  devil  had  her  in  hand  I  don't 
know,  but  from  that  instant  that  woman  has  humored  my  every 
whim,  complied  with  all  my  demands — never  for  one  moment 
has  she  given  me  cause  to  suspect  her !  " 

"That  is  supremely  clever!"  said  Carabine  to  Madame 
Nourrisson,  who  nodded  in  sign  of  assent. 

"My  faith  in  that  woman,"  said  Montez,  and  he  shed  a 
tear,  "  was  a  match  for  my  love.  Just  now,  I  was  ready  to 
fight  everybody  at  table " 

"  So  I  saw,"  said  Carabine. 

"And  if  I  am  cheated,  if  she  is  going  to  be  married,  if  she 
is  at  this  moment  in  Steinbeck's  arms,  she  deserves  a  thousand 
deaths  !     I  will  kill  her  as  I  would  smash  a  fly " 

"And  how  about  the  gendarmes,  my  son?"  said  Madame 
Nourrisson,  with  a  smile  that  made  your  flesh  creep. 

"And  the  police  agents,  and  the  judges,  and  the  galleys; 
and  all  the  set-out?"  added  Carabine. 
4 


50  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

"  You  are  bragging,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  old  woman, 
who  wanted  to  know  all  the  Brazilian's  schemes  of  vengeance. 

"I  will  kill  her,"  he  calmly  repeated.  "You  called  me  a 
savage.  Do  you  imagine  that  I  am  fool  enough  to  go,  like  a 
Frenchman,  and  buy  poison  at  the  chemist's  store?  During 
the  time  while  we  were  driving  here,  I  thought  out  my  means 
of  revenge,  if  you  should  prove  to  be  right  as  concerns  Valerie. 
One  of  my  negroes  has  the  most  deadly  of  animal  poisons,  that 
gives  a  disease  more  fatal  than  any  vegetable  poison,  and 
incurable  anywhere  but  in  Brazil.  I  will  administer  it  to  Cyd- 
alise,  who  will  give  it  to  me ;  then  by  the  time  when  death  is  a 
certainty  to  Crevel  and  his  wife,  I  shall  be  beyond  the  Azores 
with  your  cousin,  who  will  be  cured,  and  I  will  marry  her. 
We  have  our  own  little  tricks,  we  savages!  Cydalise,"  said 
he,  looking  at  the  country  girl,  "  is  the  animal  I  need.  How 
much  does  she  owe  ?  " 

"A  hundred  thousand  francs,"  said  Cydalise. 

"She  says  little — but  to  the  purpose,"  said  Carabine,  in  a 
low  tone  to  Madame  Nourrisson. 

"  I  am  going  mad  !  "  cried  the  Brazilian,  in  a  husky  voice, 
dropping  on  to  a  sofa.  "  I  shall  die  of  this  !  But  I  must  see, 
for  it  is  impossible  !  A  lithographed  note  !  What  is  to  assure 
me  that  it  is  not  a  forgery?  Baron  Hulot  was  in  love  with 
Valerie?  "  said  he,  recalling  Josepha's  harangue.  "  Nay  ;  the 
proof  that  he  did  not  love  is  that  she  is  still  alive — I  will  not 
leave  her  living  for  anybody  else,  if  she  is  not  wholly  mine." 

Montez  was  terrible  to  behold.  He  bellowed,  he  stormed  ; 
he  broke  everything  he  touched ;  rosewood  was  as  brittle  as 
glass. 

"How  he  destroys  things  !  "  said  Carabine,  looking  at  the 
old  woman.  "My  good  boy,"  said  she,  giving  the  Brazilian 
a  little  slap,  "  Roland  the  Furious  is  very  fine  in  a  poem  ;  but 
in  a  drawing-room  he  is  prosaic  and  expensive." 

"  My  son,"  said  old  Nourrisson,  rising  to  stand  in  front  of 
the  crestfallen  baron,  "  I  am  of  your  way  of  thinking.     When 


COUSIN  BETTY.  51 

you  love  in  that  way,  and  are  joined  '  till  death  does  you  part,' 
life  must  answer  for  love.  The  one  who  first  goes,  carries 
everything  away ;  it  is  a  general  wreck.  You  command  my 
esteem,  my  admiration,  my  consent,  especially  for  your  inocu- 
lation, which  will  make  me  a  friend  of  the  negro.  But  you 
love  her  !     You  will  hark  back?  " 

"I?     If  she  is  so  infamous,  I " 

"Well,  come  now,  you  are  talking  too  much,  it  strikes  me. 
A  man  who  means  to  be  avenged,  and  who  says  he  has  the 
ways  and  means  of  a  savage,  doesn't  do  that.  If  you  want  to 
see  your  '  object '  in  her  paradise,  you  must  take  Cydalise  and 
walk  straight  in  with  her  on  your  arm,  as  if  the  servant  had 
made  a  mistake.  But  no  scandal !  If  you  mean  to  be  re- 
venged, you  must  eat  the  leek,  seem  to  be  in  despair,  and 
allow  her  to  bully  you.  Do  you  see?"  said  Madame  Nour- 
risson,  finding  the  Brazilian  quite  amazed  by  so  subtle  a 
scheme. 

"All  right,  old  ostrich,"  he  replied.  "Come  along:  I 
understand." 

"Good-by,  little  one  !  "  said  the  old  woman  to  Carabine. 

She  signed  to  Cydalise  to  go  on  with  Montez,  and  remained 
a  minute  with  Carabine. 

"  Now,  child,  I  have  but  one  fear,  and  that  is  that  he  will 
strangle  her  !  I  should  be  in  a  very  tight  place ;  we  must  do 
everything  gently.  I  believe  you  have  won  your  picture  by 
Raphael  ;  but  they  tell  me  it  is  only  a  Mignard.  Never  mind, 
it  is  much  prettier ;  all  the  Raphaels  are  gone  black,  I  am  told, 
whereas  this  one  is  as  bright  as  a  Girodet." 

"All  I  want  is  to  crow  over  Josepha;  and  it  is  all  the  same 
to  me  whether  I  have  a  Mignard  or  a  Raphael !  That  little 
thief  had  on  such  pearls  this  evening  ! — you  would  sell  your 
soul  for  them." 

Cydalise,  Montez,  and  Madame  Nourrisson  got  into  a 
hackney-coach  that  was  waiting  at  the  door.  Madame  Nour- 
risson whispered  to  the  driver  the  address  of  a  house  in  the 


52  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

same  block  as  the  Italian  Opera-House,  which  they  could  have 
reached  in  five  or  six  minutes  from  the  Rue  Saint-Georges ; 
but  Madame  Nourrisson  desired  the  man  to  drive  along  the 
Rue  le  Peletier,  and  to  go  very  slowly,  so  as  to  be  able  to  ex- 
amine the  carriages  in  waiting. 

"Brazilian,"  said  the  old  woman,  "look  out  for  your 
angel's  carriage  and  servants." 

The  baron  pointed  out  Valerie's  carriage  as  they  passed  it. 

"  She  has  told  them  to  come  for  her  at  ten  o'clock,  and 
she  is  gone  in  a  hack  to  the  house  where  she  visits  Count 
Steinbock.  She  has  dined  there,  and  will  come  to  the  opera 
in  half  an  hour.  It  is  well  contrived  !  "  said  Madame  Nour- 
risson. "  Thus  you  see  how  she  has  kept  you  so  long  in  the 
dark." 

The  Brazilian  made  no  reply.  He  had  become  the  tiger, 
and  had  recovered  the  imperturbable  cool  ferocity  that  had 
been  so  striking  at  dinner.  He  was  as  calm  as  a  bankrupt  the 
day  after  he  has  stopped  payment. 

At  the  door  of  the  house  stood  a  hackney-coach  with  two 
horses,  of  the  kind  known  as  a  Couipagnie-Generale,  from 
the  company  that  runs  them. 

"  Stav  here  in  the  box,"  said  the  old  woman  to  Montez. 
"This  is  not  an  open  house  like  a  tavern.  I  will  send  for 
you." 

The  paradise  of  Madame  Marneffe  and  Wenceslas  was  not 
at  all  like  that  of  Crevel — who,  finding  it  useless  now,  had 
just  sold  his  to  the  Comte  Maxime  de  Trailles.  This  paradise, 
the  paradise  of  all  comers,  consisted  of  a  room  on  the  fifth 
floor  opening  to  the  landing,  in  a  house  close  to  the  Italian 
Opera.  On  each  floor  of  this  house  there  was  a  room  which 
had  originally  served  as  the  kitchen  to  the  apartments  on  that 
floor.  But  the  house  having  become  a  sort  of  inn,  let  out  for 
clandestine  love  affairs  at  an  exorbitant  price,  the  owner,  the 
real  Madame  Nourrisson,  an  old-clothes  buyer  in  the  Rue 
Ncuve  Saint-Marc,  had  wisely  appreciated  the  great  value  of 


COUSIN  BETTY.  53 

these  kitchens,  and  liad  turned  them  into  a  sort  of  dining- 
rooms.  Each  of  these  rooms,  built  between  thick  party-walls 
and  with  windows  to  the  street,  was  entirely  shut  in  by  very 
thick  double  doors  on  the  landing.  Thus  the  most  important 
secrets  could  be  discussed  over  a  dinner,  with  no  risk  of  being 
overheard.  For  greater  security,  the  windows  had  shutters 
inside  and  out.  These  rooms,  in  consequence  of  this  peculi- 
arity, were  let  for  twelve  hundred  francs  a  month.  The  whole 
house,  full  of  such  paradises  and  mysteries,  was  rented  by 
Madame  Nourrisson  the  First  for  twenty-eight  thousand  francs 
a  year,  and  one  year  with  another  she  made  twenty  thousand 
francs  of  clear  profit,  after  paying  her  housekeeper,  Madame 
Nourrisson  the  Second,  for  she  did  not  manage  it  herself. 

The  paradise  let  to  Count  Steinbock  had  been  hung  with 
chintz;  the  cold,  hard  floor,  of  common  tiles  reddened  witli 
encaustic,  was  not  felt  through  a  soft,  thick  carpet.  The  fur- 
niture consisted  of  two  pretty  chairs  and  a  bed  in  an  alcove, 
just  now  half  hidden  by  a  table  loaded  with  the  remains  of  an 
elegant  dinner,  while  two  bottles  with  long  necks  and  an 
empty  champagne-bottle  in  ice  strewed  the  field  of  Bacchus 
cultivated  by  Venus. 

There  were  also — the  property,  no  doubt,  of  Valerie — a  low 
easy-chair  and  a  man's  smoking-chair,  and  a  pretty  toilet  chest 
of  drawers  in  rosewood,  the  mirror  handsomely  framed  a  la 
Pompadour.  A  lamp  hanging  from  the  ceiling  gave  a  sub- 
dued light,  increased  by  wax-candles  on  the  table  and  on  the 
mantel. 

This  sketch  will  suffice  to  give  an  idea,  urbi  et  orbi,  of 
clandestine  passion  in  the  squalid  style  stamped  on  it  in  Paris 
in  1840.  How  far,  alas!  from  the  adulterous  love,  symbol- 
ized by  Vulcan's  nets,  three  thousand  years  ago. 

When  Montez  and  Cydalise  came  upstairs,  Valerie,  standing 
before  the  fire,  where  a  log  was  blazing,  was  teaching  Wen- 
ceslas  to  lace  her  corset. 

This  is  a  moment  when  a  woman  who  is  neither  too  fat  nor 


54  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

too  thin,  but,  like  Valerie,  elegant  and  slender,  displays  divine 
beauty.  The  rosy  skin,  moistly  soft,  invites  the  sleepiest  eye. 
The  lines  of  her  figure,  so  little  hidden,  are  so  charmingly 
outlined  by  the  white  pleats  of  the  chemise  and  the  support  of 
the  corset,  that  she  is  irresistible — like  everything  that  must 
be  parted  from. 

With  a  happy  face  smiling  at  the  glass,  a  foot  impatienly 
marking  time,  a  hand  put  up  to  restore  order  among  the 
tumbled  curls,  and  eyes  expressive  of  gratitude  \  with  the 
glow  of  satisfaction  which,  like  a  sunset,  warms  the  least  de- 
tails of  the  countenance — everything  makes  such  a  moment  a 
mine  of  memories. 

Any  man  who  dares  look  back  on  the  early  errors  of  his 
life  may,  perhaps,  recall  some  such  reminiscences,  and  under- 
stand, though  not  excuse,  the  follies  of  Hulot  and  Crevel. 
Women  are  so  well  aware  of  their  power  at  such  a  moment, 
that  they  find  in  it  what  may  be  called  the  aftermath  of  the 
meeting. 

"  Come,  come ;  after  two  years'  practice,  you  do  not  yet 
know  how  to  lace  a  woman's  stays !  You  are  too  much  a 
Pole  !  There,  it  is  ten  o'clock,  my  Wenceslas  !  "  said  Valerie, 
laughing  at  him. 

At  this  very  moment,  a  mischievous  waiting-woman,  by  in- 
serting a  knife,  pushed  up  the  hook  of  the  double  doors  that 
formed  the  whole  security  of  Adam  and  Eve.  She  hastily 
pulled  the  door  open — for  the  servants  of  these  dens  have 
little  time  to  waste — and  discovered  one  of  the  bewitching 
tableaux  de  genre  which  Gavarni  has  so  often  shown  at  the 
Salon. 

''In  here,  madame,"  said  the  girl;  and  Cydalise  went  in, 
followed  by  Montez. 

"But  there  is  some  one  here.  Excuse  me,  madame,"  said 
the  country  girl,  in  alarm. 

"What?  Why!  it  is  Valerie!"  cried  Montez,  violently 
slamming  the  door. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  55 

Madame  Marncffe,  too  genuinely  agitated  to  dissemble  her 
feelings,  dropped  on  to  the  chair  by  the  fireplace.  Two  tears 
rose  to  her  eyes,  and  at  once  dried  away.  She  looked  at 
Montez,  saw  the  girl,  and  burst  into  a  cackle  of  forced  laugh- 
ter. The  dignity  of  the  insulted  woman  redeemed  the  scanti- 
ness of  her  attire;  she  walked  close  up  to  the  Brazilian, 
and  looked  at  him  so  defiantly  that  her  eyes  glittered  like 
knives. 

"  So  that,"  said  she,  standing  face  to  face  with  the  baron, 
and  pointing  to  Cydalise — '•  that  is  the  other  side  of  your 
fidelity?  You,  who  have  made  me  promises  that  might  con- 
vert a  disbeliever  in  love  !  You,  for  whom  I  have  done  so 
much — have  even  committed  crimes  !  You  are  right,  mon- 
sieur, I  am  not  to  compare  with  a  child  of  her  age  and  of 
such  beauty  ! 

"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,"  she  went  on,  looking 
at  Wenceslas,  whose  undress  was  proof  too  clear  to  be  denied. 
"This  is  my  concern.  If  I  could  love  you  after  such  gross 
treachery — for  you  have  spied  upon  me,  you  have  paid  for 
every  step  up  these  stairs,  paid  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and 
the  servant,  perhaps  even  Reine — a  noble  deed  !  If  I  had 
any  remnant  of  affection  for  such  a  mean  wretch,  I  could  give 
him  reasons  that  would  renew  his  passion  !  But  I  leave  you, 
monsieur,  to  your  doubts,  which  will  become  remorse — Wen- 
ceslas, my  gown  ! ' ' 

She  took  her  dress  and  put  it  on,  looked  at  herself  in  the 
glass,  and  finished  dressing  without  heeding  the  baron,  as 
calmly  as  if  she  had  been  alone  in  the  room. 

"  Wenceslas,  are  you  ready  ?     Go  first." 

She  had  been  watching  Montez  in  the  glass  and  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye,  and  fancied  she  could  see  in  his  pallor  an 
indication  of  the  weakness  which  delivers  a  strong  man  over 
to  a  woman's  fascinations  ;  she  now  took  his  hand,  going  so 
close  to  him  that  he  could  not  help  inhaling  the  terrible  per- 
fumes which  men  love,  and  by  which  they  intoxicate  them- 


56  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

selves;  then,  feeling  his  pulses  beat  high,  she  looked  at  him 
reproachfully. 

"You  have  my  full  permission  to  go  and  tell  your  history  to 
Monsieur  Crevel ;  he  will  never  believe  you.  I  have  a  perfect 
right  to  marry  him,  and  he  becomes  my  husband  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  I  shall  make  him  very  happy.  Good-by ;  try  to 
forget  me." 

"Oh!  Valerie,"  cried  Henri  Montez,  clasping  her  in  his 
arms,  "that  is  impossible  !     Come  to  Brazil  !  " 

Valerie  looked  in  his  face,  and  saw  him  her  slave. 

"Well,  if  you  still  love  me,  Henri,  two  years  hence  I  will 
be  your  wife  ;  but  your  expression  at  this  moment  strikes  me 
as  very  suspicious." 

"  I  swear  to  you  that  they  made  me  drink,  that  false  friends 
threw  this  girl  on  my  hands,  and  that  the  whole  thing  is  the 
outcome  of  chance  !  "  said  Montez. 

"Then  I  am  to  forgive  you?"  she  asked,  with  a  very  fetch- 
ing smile. 

"  But  you  will  marry,  all  the  same  ?  "  asked  the  baron,  in  an 
agony  of  jealousy. 

"  Eighty  thousand  francs  a  year!"  said  she,  with  almost 
comical  enthusiasm.  "x\nd  Crevel  loves  me  so  much  that  he 
will  soon  die  of  it  !  " 

"Ah  !  I  understand,"  said  Montez. 

"  Well,  then,  in  a  few  days  we  will  come  to  an  understand- 
ing," said  she. 

And  she  departed  triumphant. 

"I  have  no  scruples,"  thought  the  baron,  standing  trans- 
fixed for  a  few  minutes.  "  What  !  That  woman  believes  she 
can  make  use  of  his  passion  to  be  quit  of  that  dolt,  as  she 
counted  on  Marnefife's  decease  !  I  shall  be  the  instrument  of 
divine  wrath." 

Two  days  later  those  of  du  Tillet's  guests  who  liad  demolished 
Madame  Marneffe  tooth  and  nail  were  seated  round  her  table 
an  hour  after  she  had  siied  her  skin  and  changed  her  name  for 


COUSLV  BETTY.  57 

the  illustrious  name  of  a  Paris  mayor.      This  verbal  treason  is 
one  of  the  commonest  forms  of  Parisian  levity. 

Valerie  had  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  Brazilian  in 
the  church  ;  for  Crevel..  now  so  entirely  the  husband,  had  in- 
vited him  out  of  bravado.  And  the  baron's  presence  at  the 
breakfast  astonished  no  one.  All  these  men  of  wit  and  of  the 
world  were  familiar  with  the  meanness  of  passion,  the  com- 
promises of  pleasure. 

Steinbock's  deep  melancholy — for  he  was  beginning  to 
despise  the  woman  whom  he  had  adored  as  an  angel — was 
considered  to  be  in  excellent  taste.  The  Pole  thus  seemed  to 
convey  that  all  was  at  an  end  between  Valerie  and  himself. 
Lisbeth  came  to  embrace  her  dear  Madame  Crevel,  and  to 
excuse  herself  for  not  staying  to  the  breakfast  on  the  score  of 
Adeline's  sad  state  of  health. 

"  Be  quite  easy,"  said  she  to  Valerie,  "  they  will  call  on 
you,  and  you  will  call  on  tlieni.  Simply  hearing  the  words 
'  two  hundred  thousand  francs '  has  brought  the  baroness  to 
death's  door.  Oh,  yon  have  them  all  hard  and  fast  by  that 
tale!     But  you  must  tell  it  to  me." 

Within  a  month  of  her  marriage,  Valerie  was  at  her  tenth 
quarrel  with  Steinbock  ;  he  insisted  on  explanations  as  to 
Henri  Montez,  reminding  her  of  the  words  spoken  in  their 
paradise ;  and,  not  content  with  speaking  to  her  in  terms  of 
scorn,  he  watched  her  so  closely  that  she  never  had  a  moment 
of  liberty,  so  much  was  she  fettered  by  his  jealousy  on  one 
side  and  Crevel's  devotion  on  the  other. 

Bereft  now  of  Lisbeth,  whose  advice  had  always  been  so 
valuable,  she  flew  into  such  a  rage  as  to  reproach  Wenceslas 
for  the  monev  she  had  lent  him.  This  so  effectually  roused 
Steinbock's  pride,  that  he  came  no  more  to  the  Crevels'  house. 
So  Valerie  had  gained  her  point,  which  was  to  be  rid  of  him 
for  a  time,  and  enjoy  some  freedom.  She  waited  till  Crevel 
should  make  a  little  journey  into  the  country  to  see  Comte 
Popinot,  with  a  view  to  arranging  for  her  introduction  to  the 


58  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

countess,  and  was  then  able  to  make  an  appointment  to  meet 
the  baron,  whom  she  wanted  to  have  at  her  command  for  a 
whole  day  to  give  him  those  "  reasons"  which  were  to  make 
him  love  her  more  than  ever. 

On  the  morning  of  that  day,  Reine,  who  estimated  the 
magnitude  of  her  crime  by  that  of  the  bribe  she  received, 
tried  to  warn  her  mistress,  in  whom  she  naturally  took  more 
interest  than  in  strangers.  Still,  as  she  had  been  threatened 
with  madness,  and  ending  her  days  in  the  Salpetriere  in  case 
of  indiscretion,  she  was  cautious. 

"Madame,  you  are  so  well  off  now,"  said  she.  "Why 
take  on  again  with  that  Brazilian  ?    I  do  not  trust  him  at  all." 

"You  are  very  right,  Reine,  and  I  mean  to  be  rid  of  him." 

"  Oh,  madame,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it  ;  he  frightens  me,  does 
that  big  Moor  !     I  believe  him  to  be  capable  of  anything." 

"Silly  child!  you  have  more  reason  to  be  afraid  for  him 
when  he  is  with  me." 

At  this  moment  Lisbeth  came  in. 

"  My  dear  little  pet  Nanny,  wliat  an  age  since  we  met  !  " 
cried  Valerie.  "  I  am  so  unhappy  !  Crevel  bores  me  to 
death  ;  and  Wenceslas  is  gone — we  quarreled." 

"  I  know,"  said  Lisbeth,  "  and  that  is  what  brings  me  here. 
Victorin  met  him  at  about  five  in  the  afternoon  going  into 
an  eating-house  at  five-and-twenty  sous,  and  he  brought  him 
home,  hungry,  by  working  on  his  feelings,  to  the  Rue  Louis- 
le-Grand.  Hortense,  seeing  Wenceslas  lean  and  ill  and  badly 
dressed,  held  out  her  hand.  This  is  how  you  throw  me  over 
and " 

"  Monsieur  Henri,  madame,"  the  manservant  announced 
in  a  low  voice  to  Valerie. 

"  Leave  me  now,  Betty;  I  will  explain  it  all  to-morrow." 
But,  as  will  be  seen,  Valerie  was  ere  long  not  in  a  state  to 
explain  anything  to  anybody. 

Toward  the  end  of  May,  Baron  Hulot's  pension  was  re- 


COUSIN  BETTY.  59 

leased  by  Victorin's  regular  payments  to  Baron  Nucingen. 
As  everybody  knows,  pensions  are  paid  half-yearly,  and  only 
on  the  presentation  of  a  certificate  that  the  recipient  is  alive; 
and  as  Hulot's  residence  was  unknown,  the  arrears  unpaid  on 
Vauvinet's  demand  remained  to  his  credit  in  the  Treasury. 
Vauvinet  now  signed  his  renunciation  of  any  further  claims, 
but  it  was  still  indispensable  to  fi)id  the  pensioner  before  the 
arrears  could  be  drawn. 

Thanks  to  Bianchon's  care,  the  baroness  had  recovered  her 
health  ;  and  to  this  Josepha's  good  heart  had  contributed  by 
a  letter,  of  which  the  orthography  betrayed  the  collaboration 
of  the  Due  d'Herouville.  This  was  what  the  singer  wrote  to 
the  baroness,  after  twenty  days  of  anxious  search — 

"  Madame  la  Baronne  : — Monsieur  Hulot  was  living,  two 
months  since,  in  the  Rue  des  Bernardins,  with  Elodie  Char- 
din,  a  lace-mender,  for  whom  he  had  left  Mademoiselle  Bijou; 
but  he  went  away  without  a  word,  leaving  everything  behind 
him,  and  no  one  knows  where  he  went.  I  am  not  v/ithout 
hope,  however,  and  I  have  put  a  man  on  his  track  who  be- 
lieves he  has  already  seen  him  in  the  Boulevard  Bourdon. 

"  The  poor  Jewess  means  to  keep  the  promise  she  made  to 
the  Christian.  Will  the  angel  pray  for  the  devil  ?  That  must 
sometimes  happen  in  heaven.  I  remain,  with  the  deepest  re- 
spect, always  your  humble  servant,  Josepha  Mirah." 

The  lawyer,  Maitre  Hulot  d'Ervy,  hearing  no  more  of  the 
dreadful  Madame  Nourrisson,  seeing  his  father-in-law  married, 
having  brought  back  his  brother-in-law  to  the  family  fold, 
suffering  from  no  importunity  on  the  part  of  his  new  step- 
mother, and  seeing  his  mother's  health  improve  daily,  gave 
himself  up  to  his  political  and  judicial  duties,  swept  along  by 
the  tide  of  Paris  life,  in  which  the  hours  count  for  days. 

One  night,  toward  the  end  of  the  session,  having  occasion 
to   write*^  up   a  report   to   the   Cliamber  of  Deputies,  he  was 


GO  THE   rOOR   PARENTS. 

obliged  to  sit  at  work  till  late  at  night.  Pie  had  gone  into 
his  study  at  nine  o'clock,  and,  while  waiting  till  the  man- 
servant should  bring  in  tlie  candles  with  green  shades,  his 
thoughts  turned  to  his  failier.  He  was  blaming  himself  for 
leaving  the  inquiry  so  much  to  the  singer,  and  had  resolved 
to  see  Monsieur  Chapuzot  himself  on  the  morrow,  when  he 
saw  in  the  twilight,  outside  the  window,  a  handsome  old  head, 
bald  and  yellow,  with  a  fringe  of  white  hair. 

"Would  you  please  to  give  orders,  sir,  that  a  poor  hermit 
is  to  be  admitted,  just  come  from  the  desert,  and  who  is 
instructed  to  beg  for  contributions  toward  rebuilding  a  holy 
house." 

This  apparition,  which  suddenly  reminded  the  lawyer  of  a 
prophecy  uttered  by  the  terrible  Nourrisson,  gave  him  a  shock. 

"Let  in  that  old  man,"  said  he  to  the  servant. 

"  He  will  poison  the  place,  sir,"  replied  the  man.  "He 
has  on  a  brown  gown  which  he  has  never  changed  since  he 
left  Syria,  and  he  has  no  shirt " 

"Show  him  in,"  repeated  the  master. 

The  old  man  came  in.  Victorin's  keen  eye  examined  this 
so-called  pilgrim  hermit,  and  he  saw  a  fine  specimen  of  the 
Neapolitan  friars,  whose  frocks  are  akin  to  the  rags  of  the 
lazzaroni  (beggars),  whose  sandals  are  tatters  of  leather,  as 
the  friars  are  tatters  of  humanity.  The  get-up  was  so  perfect 
that  the  lawyer,  though  still  on  his  guard,  was  vexed  with  him- 
self for  having  believed  it  to  be  one  of  Madame  Nourrisson's 
tricks. 

"  How  much  do  you  want  of  me?  " 

"Whatever  you  feel  that  you  ought  to  give." 

Victorin  took  a  five-franc  piece  from  a  little  pile  on  his 
table,  and  handed  it  to  the  stranger. 

"That  is  not  much  on  account  of  fifty  thousand  francs," 
said  the  pilgrim  of  the  desert. 

This  speech  removed  all  Victorin's  doubts. 

"And  has  heaven  kept  its  word?"  he  said,  with  a  frown. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  61 

"The  question  is  an  offense,  my  son,"  said  the  hermit. 
"  If  you  do  not  choose  to  pay  till  after  the  funeral,  you  are  in 
your  rights.     I  will  return  in  a  week's  time." 

"  The  funeral  !  "  cried  the  lawyer,  starting  up. 

"  The  world  moves  on,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  withdrew, 
''  and  the  dead  move  quickly  in  Paris  !  " 

•When  Hulot,  who  stood  looking  down,  was  about  to  reply, 
the  stalwart  old  man  had  vanished. 

''  I  don't  understand  one  word  of  all  this,"  said  Victorin  to 
himself.  "  But  at  the  end  of  the  week  I  will  ask  him  again 
about  my  father,  if  we  have  not  yet  found  him.  Where  does 
Madame  Nourrisson — yes,  that  is  her  real  name — pick  up  such 
actors? '' 

On  the  following  day.  Dr.  Bianchon  allowed  the  baroness 
to  go  down  into  the  garden,  after  examining  Lisbeth,  who  had 
been  obliged  to  keep  to  her  room  for  a  month  by  a  slight 
bronchial  attack.  The  learned  doctor,  who  dared  not  pro- 
nounce a  definite  opinion  on  Lisbeth's  case  till  he  had  seen 
some  decisive  symptoms,  went  into  the  garden  with  Adeline 
to  observe  the  effect  of  the  fresh  air  on  her  nervous  tremblinsr 
after  two  months  of  seclusion.  He  was  interested  and  allured 
by  the  hope  of  curing  this  nervous  complaint.  On  seeing  the 
great  physician  sitting  with  them  and  sparing  them  a  few 
minutes,  the  baroness  and  her  family  conversed  with  him  on 
general  subjects. 

"  Your  life  is  a  very  full  and  a  very  sad  one,"  said  Madame 
Hulot.  "I  know  what  it  is  to  spend  one's  days  in  seeing 
poverty  and  physical  suffering." 

"  I  know,  madame,"  replied  the  doctor,  "all  the  scenes  of 
which  charity  compels  you  to  be  a  spectator ;  but  you  will  get 
used  to  it  in  time,  as  we  all  do.  It  is  the  law  of  existence. 
The  confessor,  the  magistrate,  the  lawyer  would  find  life  un- 
endurable if  the  spirit  of  the  State  did  not  assert  itself  above 
the  feelings  of  the  individual.  Could  we  live  at  all  but  for 
that  ?     Is  not  the  soldier  in  time  of  war  brought  face  to  face 


62  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

with  spectacles  even  more  dreadful  than  those  we  see?  And 
every  soldier  that  has  been  under  fire  is  kind-hearted.  We 
medical  men  have  the  pleasure  now  and  again  of  a  successful 
cure,  as  you  have  that  of  saving  a  family  from  the  horrors  of 
hunger,  depravity,  or  misery,  and  of  restoring  it  to  social  re- 
spectability. But  what  comfort  can  the  magistrate  find,  the 
police  agent,  or  the  attorney,  who  spend  their  lives  in  investi- 
gating the  basest  schemes  of  self-interest,  the  social  monster 
whose  only  regret  is  when  it  fails,  but  on  whom  repentance 
never  dawns  ? 

"One-half  of  society  spends  its  life  in  watching  the  other 
half.  A  very  old  friend  of  mine  is  an  attorney,  now  retired, 
who  told  me  that  for  fifteen  years  past  notaries  and  lawyers 
have  distrusted  their  clients  quite  as  much  as  their  adversaries. 
Your  son  is  a  pleader ;  has  he  never  found  himself  compromised 
by  the  client  for  whom  he  held  a  brief?  " 

"  Very  often,"  said  Victorin,  with  a  smile. 

''And  what  is  the  cause  of  this  deep-seated  evil?"  asked 
the  baroness. 

"The  decay  of  religion,"  said  Bianchon,  "and  the  pre- 
eminence of  finance,  which  is  simply  solidified  selfishness. 
Money  used  not  to  be  everything;  there  were  some  kinds  of 
superiority  that  ranked  above  it — nobility,  genius,  service  done 
to  the  State.  But  nowadays  the  law  takes  wealth  as  the  uni- 
versal standard,  and  regards  it  as  the  measure  of  public  capac- 
ity. Certain  magistrates  are  ineligible  to  the  Chamber;  Jean- 
Jacques  Rousseau  would  be  ineligible  !  The  perpetual  sub- 
division of  estates  compels  every  man  to  take  care  of  himself 
from  the  age  of  twenty. 

"Well,  then,  between  the  necessity  for  making  a  fortune 
and  the  depravity  of  speculation  there  is  no  check  or  hin- 
drance;  for  the  religious  sense  is  wholly  lacking  in  France,  in 
spite  of  the  laudable  endeavors  of  those  who  are  working  for 
a  Catholic  revival.  And  this  is  the  opinion  of  every  man  who, 
like  me,  studies  society  at  the  core." 


COUSIN  BETTY.  63 

"And  you  have  few  })leasnres?"  said  Hortense. 

"  The  true  physician,  madame,  is  in  love  with  his  science," 
replied  the  doctor.  "  He  is  sustained  by  that  passion  as  much 
as  by  the  sense  of  his  usefulness  to  society. 

"At  this  very  time  you  see  me  in  a  sort  of  scientific  rap- 
ture, and  many  superficial  judges  would  regard  me  as  a  man 
devoid  of  feeling.  I  have  to  announce  a  discovery  to-morrow 
to  the  College  of  Medicine,  for  I  am  studying  a  disease  that 
had  disappeared — a  mortal  disease  for  which  no  cure  is  known 
in  temperate  climates,  though  it  is  curable  in  the  West  Indies 
— a  malady  known  here  in  the  Middle  Ages.  A  noble  fight 
is  that  of  the  physician  against  such  a  disease.  For  the  last  ten 
days  I  have  thought  of  nothing  but  these  cases — for  there  are 
two,  a  husband  and  wife.  Are  they  not  connections  of  yours? 
For  you,  madame,  are  surely  Monsieur  Crevel's  daughter?" 
said  he,  addressing  Celestine. 

"What,  is  my  father  your  patient?"  asked  Celestine. 
"Living  in  the  Rue  Barbet-de-Jouy?  " 

"  Precisely  so,"  said  Bianchon. 

"And  the  disease  is  inevitably  fatal?"  said  Victorin  in 
dismay. 

"  I  will  go  to  see  him,"  said  Celestine,  rising. 

"  I  positively  forbid  it,  madame,"  Bianchon  quietly  said. 
"  The  disease  is  contagious." 

"But  you  go  there,  monsieur,"  replied  the  young  woman. 
"Do  you  think  that  a  daughter's  duty  is  less  binding  than  a 
doctor's?" 

"  Madame,  a  physician  knows  how  to  protect  himself 
against  infection,  and  the  rashness  of  your  devotion  proves 
to  me  that  you  would  probably  be  less  prudent  than  I." 

Celestine,  however,  got  up  and  went  to  her  room,  where 
she  dressed  to  go  out. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Victorin  to  Bianchon,  "have  you  any 
hope  of  saving  Monsieur  and  Madame  Crevel  ?  " 

"I  hope,  but  I  do  not  believe  that  I  can,"  said  Bianchon. 


64  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"The  case  is  to  me  quite  inexplicable.  The  disease  is  pecu- 
liar to  negroes  and  the  American  tribes,  whose  skin  is  diflFer- 
ently  constituted  to  that  of  the  white  races.  Now  I  can 
trace  no  connection  with  the  copper-colored  tribes,  with 
negroes  or  half-castes,  in  Monsieur  or  Madame  Crevel. 

"And  though  it  is  a  very  interesting  disease  to  us,  it  is  a 
terrible  thing  for  the  sufferers.  The  poor  woman,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  very  pretty,  is  punished  for  her  sins,  for 
she  is  now  squalidly  hideous  if  she  is  still  anything  at  all. 
She  is  losing  her  hair  and  teeth,  her  skin  is  like  a  leper's,  she 
is  a  horror  to  herself;  her  hands  are  horrible,  covered  with 
greenish  pustules,  her  nails  are  loose,  and  the  flesh  is  eaten 
away  by  the  poisoned  humors." 

"And  the  cause  of  such  a  disease?"  asked  the  lawyer. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  doctor,  "  the  cause  lies  in  a  form  of  rapid 
blood-poisoning;  it  generates  with  most  terrific  rapidity.  I 
hope  to  act  on  the  blood ;  I  am  having  it  analyzed ;  and  I 
am  now  going  home  to  ascertain  the  result  of  the  labors  of 
my  friend  Professor  Duval,  the  famous  chemist,  wiih  a  view 
to  trying  one  of  those  desperate  measures  by  which  we  some- 
times attempt  to  defeat  death." 

"The  hand  of  God  is  there!  "  said  Adeline,  in  a  voice 
husky  with  emotion.  "  Though  that  woman  has  brought 
sorrows  on  me  which  have  led  me  in  moments  of  madness 
to  invoke  the  vengeance  of  heaven,  I  hope — God  knows  I 
hope — you  may  succeed,  doctor." 

Victorin  felt  dizzy.  He  looked  at  his  mother,  his  sister, 
and  the  physician  by  turns,  quaking  lest  they  should  read  his 
thoughts.      He  felt  himself  a  murderer. 

Hortense,  for  her  part,  thought  God  was  just. 

Celestine  came  back  to  beg  her  husband  to  accompany  her. 

**  If  you  insist  on  going,  madame,  and  you  too,  monsieur, 
keep  at  least  a  foot  between  you  and  the  bed  of  the  sufferer, 
that  is  the  chief  precaution.  Neither  you  nor  your  wife  must 
dream  of  kissing  the  dying  man.     And,  indeed,  you  ought 


COUSIN  BETTY.  65 

to  go  with  your  wife,  Monsieur  Hulot,  to  hinder  her  from 
disobeying  my  injunctions." 

Adeline  and  Hortense,  when  they  were  left  alone,  went  to 
sit  with  Lisbeth.  Hortense  had  such  a  virulent  hatred  of 
Valerie  that  she  could  not  contain  the  expression  of  it. 

"Cousin  Betty,"  she  exclaimed,  "my  mother  and  I  are 
avenged  !  That  venomous  snake  is  herself  bitten — she  is 
rotting  in  her  bed  !  " 

**  Hortense,  at  this  moment  you  are  not  a  Christian,  You 
ought  to  pray  God  to  vouchsafe  repentance  to  this  wretched 
woman,"  said  Madame  Hulot. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Betty,  rising  from 
her  couch.     "Are  you  speaking  of  Valerie?" 

*'  Yes,"  replied  Adeline  ;  "  she  is  past  hope — dying  of 
some  horrible  disease  of  which  the  mere  description  makes 
one  shudder " 

Lisbeth's  teeth  chattered,  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  all  over 
her ;  the  violence  of  the  shock  showed  how  passionate  her 
attachment  to  Valerie  had  been. 

"  I  must  go  there,"  said  she. 

"But  the  doctor  forbids  your  going  out." 

"  I  do  not  care — I  must  go  !  Poor  Crevel  !  what  a  state  he 
must  be  in  ;  for  he  loves  that  woman." 

"He  is  dying,  too,"  replied  Countess  Steinbock.  "Ah! 
all  our  enemies  are  in  the  devil's  clutches " 

"In  God's  hands,  my  child " 

Lisbeth  dressed  in  the  famous  yellow  Indian  shawl  and  her 
black  velvet  bonnet,  and  put  on  her  shoes ;  in  spite  of  her 
relations'  remonstrances,  she  set  out  as  if  driven  by  some  irre- 
sistible power. 

She  arrived  in  the  Rue  Barbet  a  few  minutes  after  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Hulot,  and  found  seven  physicians  there,  brought 
by  Bianchon  to  study  this  unique  case;  he  had  just  joined 
them.  The  physicians,  assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  were 
discussing  the  disease  \  now  one  and  now  another  went  into 
5 


66  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

Valerie's  room  or  C revel's  to  take  a  note,  and  returned  with 
an  opinion  based  on  this  rapid  examination. 

These  princes  of  science  were  divided  in  their  opinions. 
One,  who  stood  alone  in  his  views,  considered  it  a  case  of 
poisoning,  of  private  revenge,  and  denied  its  identity  with 
the  disease  known  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Three  others  re- 
garded it  as  a  specific  deterioration  of  the  blood  and  the 
humors.  The  rest,  agreeing  with  Bianchon,  maintained  that 
the  blood  was  poisoned  by  some  hitherto  unknown  morbid 
infection.  Bianchon  produced  Professor  Duval's  analysis  of 
the  blood.  The  remedies  to  be  applied,  though  absolutely 
empirical  and  without  hope,  depended  on  the  verdict  in  this 
medical  dilemma. 

Lisbeth  stood  as  if  petrified  three  yards  away  from  the  bed 
where  Valerie  lay  dying,  as  she  saw  a  priest  from  Saint-Thomas 
d'Aquin  standing  by  her  friend's  pillow,  and  a  sister  of  charity 
in  attendance.  Religion  could  find  a  soul  to  save  in  a  mass 
of  rottenness  which,  of  the  five  senses  of  man,  had  now  only 
that  of  sight.  The  sister  of  charity  who  alone  had  been  found 
to  nurse  Valerie  stood  apart.  Thus  the  Catholic  religion,  that 
divine  institution,  always  actuated  by  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice, 
under  its  twofold  aspect  of  the  Spirit  and  the  flesh,  was  tend- 
ing this  horrible  and  atrocious  creature,  soothing  her  death- 
bed bv  its  infinite  benevolence  and  inexhaustible  stores  of 
mercy. 

The  servants,  in  horror,  refused  to  go  into  the  room  of 
either  their  master  or  mistress ;  they  thought  only  of  them- 
selves, and  judged  their  betters  as  righteously  stricken.  The 
smell  was  so  foul  that  in  spite  of  open  windows  and  strong 
perfumes,  no  one  could  remain  long  in  Valerie's  room.  Re- 
ligion alone  kept  guard  there. 

How  could  a  woman  so  clever  as  Valerie  fail  to  ask  herself 
to  what  end  these  two  representatives  of  the  church  remained 
with  her  ?  The  dying  woman  had  listened  to  the  words  of 
the  priest.     Repentance  had  risen  on  her  darkened  soul  as  the 


COUSIN  BETTY.  67 

devouring  malady  had  consumed  her  beauty.  The  fragile 
Valerie  had  been  less  able  to  resist  the  inroads  of  the  disease 
than  Crevel ;  she  would  be  the  first  to  succumb,  and,  indeed, 
had  been  the  first  attacked. 

"If  I  had  not  been  ill  myself,  I  would  have  come  to  nurse 
you,"  said  Lisbeth  at  last,  after  a  glance  at  her  friend's 
sunken  eyes.  "  I  have  kept  my  room  this  fortnight  or  three 
weeks  ;  but  when  I  heard  of  your  state  from  the  doctor,  I 
came  at  once." 

"Poor  Lisbeth,  you  at  least  love  me  still,  I  see!"  said 
Valerie.  "Listen.  I  have  only  a  day  or  two  left  to  think, 
for  I  cannot  say  to  live.  You  see,  there  is  nothing  left  of  me 
— I  am  a  heap  of  filth  !  They  will  not  let  me  see  myself  in  a 
glass.  Well,  it  is  no  more  than  I  deserve.  Oh,  if  I  might 
only  win  mercy,  I  would  gladly  undo  all  the  mischief  I  have 
done." 

"Oh  !  "  said  Lisbeth,  "if  you  can  talk  like  that,  you  are 
indeed  a  dead  woman." 

"  Do  not  hinder  this  woman's  repentance,  leave  her  in  her 
Christian  mind,"  said  the  priest. 

"There  is  nothing  left  !  "  said  Lisbeth  in  consternation. 
*'  I  cannot  recognize  her  eyes  or  her  mouth  !  Not  a  feature 
of  her  is  there  !  And  her  wit  has  deserted  her  !  Oh,  it  is 
awful  !" 

"You  don't  know,"  said  Valerie,  "what  death  is;  what 
it  is  to  be  obliged  to  think  of  the  morrow  of  your  last  day  on 
earth,  and  of  what  is  to  be  found  in  the  grave.  Worms  for 
the  body — and  for  the  soul,  what?  Lisbeth,  I  know  there  is 
another  life  !  And  I  am  given  over  to  terrors  which  prevent 
my  feeling  the  pangs  of  my  decomposing  body.  I,  who  could 
laugh  at  a  saint,  and  say  to  Crevel  that  the  vengeance  of  God 
took  every  form  of  disaster.  Well,  I  was  a  true  prophet.  Do 
not  trifle  with  sacred  things,  Lisbeth  ;  if  you  love  me,  repent 
as  I  do." 

"I !  "  said  Lisbeth.     "  I  see  vengeance  wherever  I  turn  in 


68  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

nature ;  insects  even  die  to  satisfy  the  craving  for  revenge 
when  they  are  attacked.  And  do  not  these  gentlemen  tell 
us  " — and  she  looked  at  the  priest — "  that  God  is  revenged, 
and  that  His  vengeance  lasts  through  all  eternitv?  '' 

The  priest  looked  mildly  at  Lisbeth  and  said — 

"You,  madame,  are  an  atheist !  " 

"Nothing  left  of  her.   Her  mind  gone  too, ' '  muttered  Lisbeth. 

"Yes,  look  what  I  have  come  to,"  said  Valerie. 

"And  where  did  you  get  this  gangrene?"  asked  the  old 
maid,  unmoved  from  her  peasant  incredulity. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Henri  which  leaves  me  in  no  doubt  as 
to  my  fate.  He  has  murdered  me.  And — ^just  when  I  meant 
to  live  honestly — to  die  an  object  of  disgust ! 

"  Lisbeth,  give  up  all  notions  of  revenge.  Be  kind  to  that 
family  to  whom  I  have  left  by  ray  will  everything  I  can  dis- 
pose of.  Go,  child,  though  you  are  the  only  creature  who, 
at  this  hour,  does  not  avoid  me  with  horror — go,  I  beseech 
you,  and  leave  me.  I  have  only  time  to  make  my  peace  with 
God!" 

"  She  is  wandering  in  her  wits,"  said  Lisbeth  to  herself,  as 
she  left  the  room. 

The  strongest  affection  ever  known,  that  of  a  woman  for  a 
woman,  had  not  such  heroic  constancy  as  the  church.  Lis- 
beth, stifled  by  the  miasma,  went  away.  She  found  the 
physicians  still  in  consultation.  But  Bianchon's  opinion 
carried  the  day,  and  the  only  question  now  was  how  to  try  the 
remedies. 

"At  any  rate,  we  shall  have  a  splendid  post-mortem,'^  said 
one  of  his  opponents,  "  and  there  will  be  two  cases  to  enable 
us  to  make  comparisons." 

Lisbeth  came  in  again  with  Bianchon,  who  went  up  to  the 
sick  woman  without  seeming  aware  of  the  maladorous  atmos- 
phere. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "  we  intend  to  try  a  powerful  remedy 
which  may  save  you ' ' 


COUSIN  BETTY.  69 

"  And  if  you  save  my  life,"  said  she,  "shall  I  be  as  good- 
looking  as  ever?  " 

"Possibly,"  said  the  judicious  physician. 

"I  know  your  'possibly,'"  said  Valerie.  "I  shall  look 
like  a  woman  who  has  fallen  into  the  fire  !  No,  leave  me  to 
the  church.  I  can  please  no  one  now  but  God.  I  will  try  to 
be  reconciled  to  Him,  and  that  will  be  my  last  flirtation  ;  yes, 
I  must  try  to  come  round  God  !  " 

"That  is  my  poor  Valerie's  last  jest;  that  is  all  herself!  " 
said  Lisbeth  in  tears. 

Lisbeth  thought  it  her  duty  to  go  into  Crevel's  room,  where 
she  found  Victorin  and  his  wife  sitting  about  a  yard  away 
from  the  stricken  man's  bed. 

"Betty,"  said  he,  "they  will  not  tell  me  what  state  my 
wife  is  in  ;  you  have  just  seen  her — how  is  she?" 

"She  is  better;  she  says  she  is  saved,"  replied  Lisbeth, 
allowing  herself  this  play  on  the  word  to  soothe  Crevel's  mind. 

"That  is  well,"  said  the  mayor.  "I  feared  lest  I  had 
been  the  cause  of  her  illness.  A  man  is  not  a  traveler  in 
perfumery  for  nothing;  I  had  blamed  myself.  If  I  should 
lose  her,  what  would  become  of  me?  On  my  honor,  my  chil- 
dren, I  worship  that  woman." 

He  sat  up  in  bed  and  tried  to  assume  his  favorite  position. 

"  Oh,  papa  !  "  cried  Celestine,  "  if  only  you  could  be  well 
again,  I  would  make  friends  with  my  stepmother — I  make  a 
vow!" 

"Poor  little  Celestine!"  said  Crevel,  "come  and  kiss 
me." 

Victorin  held  back  his  wife,  wlio  was  rushing  forward. 

"You  do  not  know,  perhaps,"  said  the  lawyer  gently, 
"  that  your  disease  is  contagious,  monsieur?  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  replied  Crevel.  "And  the  doctors  are  quite 
proud  of  having  rediscovered  in  me  some  long-lost  plague  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  which  the  Faculty  has  had  cried  like  lost 
property — it  is  very  funny  !  " 


70  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

"Papa,"  said  Celestine,  "  be  brave,  and  you  will  get  the 
better  of  this  disease." 

"  Be  quite  easy,  my  children  ;  Death  thinks  twice  of  it  be- 
fore carrying  off  a  mayor  of  Paris,"  said  he,  with  monstrous 
composure.  "And  if,  after  all,  my  district  is  so  unfortunate 
as  to  lose  a  man  it  has  twice  honored  with  its  suffrages — you 
see  what  a  flow  of  words  I  have  !  Well,  I  shall  know  how  to 
pack  up  and  go.  I  have  been  a  commercial  traveler ;  I  am 
experienced  in  such  matters.  Ah  !  my  children,  I  am  a  man 
of  strong  mind." 

"  Papa,  promise  me  to  admit  the  church " 

"  Never,"  replied  Crevel.  "  What  is  to  be  said?  I  drank 
the  milk  of  Revolution ;  I  have  not  Baron  Holbach's  wit,  but 
I  have  his  strength  of  mind.  I  am  more  Regency  than  ever, 
more  musketeer.  Abbe  Dubois,  and  Marechal  de  Richelieu  ! 
By  the  Holy  Poker  !  My  wife,  who  is  wandering  in  her  head, 
has  just  sent  a  man  in  a  cassock  to  me — to  me  !  the  admirer  of 
Beranger,  the  friend  of  Lisette,  the  son  of  Voltaire  and  Jean- 
Jacques.  The  doctor,  to  feel  my  pulse,  as  it  were,  and  see  if 
sickness  had  subdued  me — 'You  saw  Monsieur  I'Abbe,'  said 
he.  Well,  I  imitated  the  great  Montesquieu.  Yes,  I  looked  at 
the  doctor — see,  like  this" — and  he  turned  to  show  three- 
quarters  face,  like  his  portrait,  and  extended  his  hand  authori- 
tatively— "and  I  said — 

" '  The  slave  he  came, 
And  showed  his  order,  but  he  left  with  shame.' 

"  'His  Order'  is  a  pretty  jest,  showing  that  even  in  death 
Monsieur  le  President  de  Montesquieu  preserved  his  elegant 
wit,  for  they  had  sent  him  a  Jesuit.  I  admire  that  passage — I 
cannot  say  of  his  life,  but  of  his  death — the  passage — another 
joke  !  The  passage  from  life  to  death — the  Passage-Montes- 
quieu !  " 

Victorin  gazed  sadly  at  his  father-in-law,  wondering  whether 


COUSIN  BETTY.  71 

folly  and  vanity  were  not  forces  on  a  par  with  true  greatness 
of  soul.  The  causes  that  act  on  the  springs  of  the  soul  seem 
to  be  quite  independent  of  the  results.  Can  it  be  that  the 
fortitude  which  upholds  a  great  criminal  is  the  same  as  that 
with  which  a  Champcenetz  so  proudly  walks  to  the  scaffold  ? 

By  the  end  of  the  week  Madame  Crevel  was  buried,  after 
dreadful  sufferings ;  and  Crevel  followed  her  within  two  days. 
Thus  the  marriage-contract  was  annulled.     Crevel  was  heir  to 

Valerie. 

On  the  very  day  after  the  funeral,  the  friar  called  again  on 
the  lawyer,  who  received  him  in  perfect  silence.  The  monk 
held  out  his  hand  without  a  word,  and  without  a  word  Victoria 
Hulot  gave  him  eighty  thousand-franc  notes,  taken  from  a  sum 
of  money  found  in  Crevel's  desk. 

Young  Madame  Hulot  inherited  the  estate  of  Presles  and 
thirty  thousand  francs  a  year. 

Madame  Crevel  had  bequeathed  a  sum  of  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  to  Baron  Hulot.  Her  scrofulous  boy  Stan- 
islas was  to  inherit,  at  his  majority,  the  Hotel  Crevel  and  eighty 
thousand  francs  a  year. 

Among  the  many  noble  associations  founded  in  Paris  by 
Catholic  charity,  there  is  one,  originated  by  Madame  de  la 
Chanterie,  for  promoting  civil  and  religious  marriages  be- 
tween persons  who  have  formed  a  voluntary  but  illicit  union. 
Legislators,  who  draw  large  revenues  from  the  registration 
fees,  and  the  Bourgeois  dynasty,  which  benefits  by  the  notary's 
profits,  affect  to  overlook  the  fact  that  three-fourths  of  the 
poorer  class  cannot  afford  fifteen  francs  for  the  marriage-con- 
tract. In  this  the  corporation  of  notaries  is  inferior  to  that 
of  the  pleaders  in  Paris.  The  pleaders,  a  sufficiently  vilified 
body,  gratuitously  defend  the  cases  of  the  indigent,  while  the 
notaries  have  not  as  yet  agreed  to  charge  nothing  for  the  mar- 
riage-contract of  the  poor.  As  to  the  revenue  collectors,  the 
whole  machinery  of  Government  would  have  to  be  dislocated 


72  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

to  induce  the  authorities  to  relax  their  demands.  The  regis- 
trar's office  is  deaf  and  dumb. 

Then  the  church,  too,  receives  a  duty  on  marriages.  In 
France  the  church  depends  largely  on  such  revenues ;  even  in 
the  House  of  God  it  traffics  in  chairs  and  kneeling  stools  in  a 
way  that  offends  foreigners  ;  though  it  cannot  have  forgotten 
the  anger  of  the  Saviour  who  drove  the  money-changers  out 
of  the  Temple.  If  the  church  is  so  loth  to  relinquish  its  dues, 
it  must  be  supposed  that  these  dues,  known  as  vestry  dues,  are 
one  of  its  sources  of  maintenance,  and  then  the  fault  of  the 
church  is  the  fault  of  the  State. 

The  cooperation  of  these  conditions,  at  a  time  when  charity 
is  too  greatly  concerned  with  the  woes  of  the  negro  and  the 
petty  offenders  discharged  from  prison  to  trouble  itself  about 
honest  people  in  difficulties,  results  in  the  existence  of  a  num- 
ber of  decent  couples  who  have  never  been  legally  married 
for  lack  of  thirty  francs,  the  lowest  figure  for  which  the  notary, 
the  registrar,  the  mayor,  and  the  church  will  unite  two  citizens 
of  Paris.  Madame  de  la  Chanterie's  fund,  founded  to  restore 
poor  households  to  their  religious  and  legal  status,  hunts  up 
such  couples,  and  with  all  the  more  success  because  it  helps 
them  in  their  poverty  before  attacking  their  unlawful  union. 

As  soon  as  Madame  Hulot  had  recovered,  she  returned  to 
her  occupations.  And  then  it  was  that  the  admirable  Madame 
de  la  Chanterie  came  to  beg  that  Adeline  would  add  the  legali- 
zation  of  these  voluntary  unions  to  the  other  good  works  of 
which  she  was  the  instrument. 

One  of  the  baroness'  first  efforts  in  this  cause  was  made  in 
the  ominous-looking  district,  formerly  known  as  la  Petite 
Pologne — Little  Poland — bounded  by  the  Rue  du  Rocher, 
Rue  de  la  Pepiniere,  and  Rue  de  Miromenil.  There  exists 
there  a  sort  of  offshoot  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Marceau.  To 
give  an  idea  of  this  part  of  the  town,  it  is  enough  to  say  that 
the  landlords  of  some  of  the  houses  tenanted  bv  workingmen 
without  work,  by  dangerous  characters,  and  by  the  very  poor 


COUSIN  BETTY.  73 

employed  in  unhealthy  toil,  dare  not  demand  their  rents,  and 
can  find  no  bailiffs  bold  enough  to  evict  insolvent  lodgers. 
At  the  present  time  speculating  builders,  who  are  fast  chang- 
ing the  aspect  of  this  corner  of  Paris,  and  covering  the  waste 
ground  lying  between  the  Rue  d' Amsterdam  and  the  Rue 
Faubourg-du-Roule,  will  no  doubt  alter  the  character  of  the 
inhabitants ;  for  the  trowel  is  a  more  civilizing  agent  than  is 
generally  supposed.  By  erecting  substantial  and  handsome 
houses,  with  janitors  at  the  doors,  by  bordering  the  streets 
with  footwalks  and  stores,  speculation,  while  raising  the  rents, 
disperses  the  squalid  class,  families  bereft  of  furniture,  and 
lodgers  that  cannot  pay.  And  so  these  districts  are  cleared  of 
such  objectionable  residents,  and  the  dens  vanish  into  which 
the  police  never  venture  unless  in  the  pursuit  of  criminals. 

In  June,  1844,  the  purlieus  of  the  Place  de  Laborde  were 
still  far  from  inviting.  The  genteel  pedestrian,  who,  by- 
chance,  should  turn  out  of  the  Rue  de  la  Pepiniere  into  one 
of  these  dreadful  side-streets,  would  have  been  dismayed  to 
see  how  vile  a  bohemia  dwelt  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  aristoc- 
racy. In  such  places  as  these,  haunted  by  ignorant  poverty 
and  misery  driven  to  bay,  flourish  the  last  public  letter-writers 
who  are  to  be  found  in  Paris.  Wherever  you  see  the  two 
words  "  Ecrivain  Public  "  written  in  a  fine  copy  hand  on  a 
sheet  of  letter-paper  stuck  to  the  window-pane  of  some  low 
entresol  or  mud-splashed  first-floor  Boom,  you  may  safely  con- 
clude that  the  neighborhood  is  the  lurking  place  of  many  un- 
lettered folk,  and  of  much  vice  and  crime,  the  outcome  of 
misery  ;  for  ignorance  is  the  mother  of  all  sorts  of  crime.  A 
crime  is,  in  the  first  instance,  a  defect  of  reasoning  power. 

While  the  baroness  had  been  ill,  this  quarter,  to  which  she 
was  a  minor  Providence,  had  seen  the  advent  of  a  public 
writer  who  settled  in  the  Passage  du  Soleil — Sun  Alley — a  spot 
of  which  the  name  is  one  of  the  antitheses  dear  to  the  Parisian, 
for  the  passage  is  especially  dark.  This  writer,  supposed  to 
be  a  German,  was  named  Vyder,  and  he  lived  on  matrimonial 


74  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

terms  with  a  young  creature  of  whom  he  was  so  jealouLi  that  he 
never  allowed  her  to  go  anywhere  except  to  some  honest  stove 
and  flue-fitters,  in  the  Rue  Saint-Lazare,  Italians,  as  such 
fitters  always  are,  but  long  since  established  in  Paris.  These 
people  had  been  saved  from  a  bankruptcy,  which  would  have 
reduced  them  to  misery,  by  the  baroness,  acting  in  behalf  of 
Madame  de  la  Chanterie.  In  a  few  months  comfort  had 
taken  the  place  of  poverty,  and  Religion  had  found  a  home  in 
hearts  which  once  had  cursed  heaven  with  the  energy  peculiar 
to  Italian  stove-fitters. 

So  one  of  Madame  Hulot's  first  visits  was  to  this  family. 
She  was  pleased  at  the  scene  that  presented  itself  to  her  eyes 
at  the  back  of  the  house  where  this  worthy  family  lived  in  the 
Rue  Saint-Lazare,  not  far  from  the  Rue  du  Rocher.  High 
above  the  stores  and  workshops,  now  well  filled,  where  toiled 
a  swarm  of  apprentices  and  workmen — all  Italians  from  the 
valley  of  Domo  d'Ossola — the  master's  family  occupied  a  set 
of  rooms,  which  liard  work  had  blessed  with  abundance. 
The  baroness  was  hailed  like  the  Virgin  Mary  in  person. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  questioning,  Adeline,  having 
to  wait  for  the  father  to  inquire  how  his  business  was  prosper- 
ing, pursued  her  saintly  calling  as  a  spy  by  asking  whether  they 
knew  of  any  families  living  out  of  the  pale  of  wedlock. 

"Ah!  dear  lady,  you  who  could  save  the  damned  from 
hell  !  "  said  the  Italian  wife,  "there  is  a  girl  quite  near  here 
to  be  saved  from  perdition." 

"A  girl  well  known  to  you?"  asked  the  baroness. 

"  She  is  the  granddaughter  of  a  master  my  husband  formerly 
worked  for,  who  came  to  France  in  1798,  after  the  Revolution, 
by  name  Judici.  Old  Judici,  in  Napoleon's  time,  was  one  of 
the  principal  stove-fitters  in  Paris;  he  died  in  1819,  leaving 
his  son  a  fine  fortune.  But  the  younger  Judici  wasted  all  his 
money  on  bad  women  ;  till,  at  last,  he  married  one  who  was 
sharper  than  the  rest,  and  she  had  this  poor  little  girl,  who  is 
iust  turned  fifteen." 


COUSIN  BETTY.  75 

"And  what  is  wrong  with  her?"  asked  Adeline,  struck  by 
the  resemblance  between  this  Judici  and  her  husband. 

''Well,  madame,  this  child,  named  Atala,  ran  away  from 
her  father,  and  came  to  live  close  by  here  with  an  old  German 
of  eighty  at  least,  named  Vyder,  who  does  odd  jobs  for  people 
who  cannot  read  and  write.  Now,  if  this  old  sinner,  who 
bought  the  child  of  her  mother,  they  say,  for  fifteen  hundred 
francs,  would  but  marry  her,  as  he  certainly  has  not  long  to 
live,  and  as  he  is  said  to  have  some  few  thousands  of  francs  a 
year — well,  the  poor  thing,  who  is  a  sweet  little  angel,  would 
be  out  of  mischief,  and  above  want,  which  must  be  the  ruin 
of  her." 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  the  information.  I  may  do 
some  good,  but  I  must  act  with  caution.  Who  is  the  old 
man?" 

"Oh!  madame,  he  is  a  good  old  fellow;  he  makes  the 
child  very  happy,  and  he  has  some  sense  too,  for  he  left  the 
part  of  town  where  the  Judicis  live,  as  I  believe,  to  snatch  the 
child  from  her  mother's  clutches.  The  mother  was  jealous  of 
her,  and  I  dare  say  she  thought  she  could  make  money  out  of 
her  beauty  and  make  a  '  Mademoiselle  '  of  the  girl. 

"Atala  remembered  us,  and  advised  her  gentleman  to  settle 
near  us ;  and  as  the  goodman  sees  how  decent  we  are,  he 
allows  her  to  come  here.  But  get  them  married,  madame, 
and  you  will  do  an  action  worthy  of  you.  Once  married,  the 
child  will  be  independent  and  free  from  her  mother,  who 
keeps  an  eye  on  her,  and  who,  if  she  could  make  money  by 
her,  would  like  to  see  her  on  the  stage,  or  successful  in  the 
wicked  life  she  meant  her  to  lead." 

"Why  doesn't  the  old  man  marry  her?" 

"There  was  no  necessity  for  it,  you  see,"  said  the  Italian. 
"And  though  old  Vyder  is  not  a  bad  old  fellow,  I  fancy  he  is 
sharp  enough  to  wish  to  remain  the  master,  while  if  he  once 
got  married — why,  the  poor  man  is  afraid  of  the  stone  that 
];)angs  round  every  old  husband's  neck." 


76  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"Could  you  send  for  the  girl  to  come  here?"  said  Ma- 
dame Hulot,  "  I  should  see  her  quietly,  and  find  out  what 
could  be  done " 

The  stove-fitter's  wife  signed  to  her  eldest  girl,  who  ran  off". 
Ten  minutes  later  she  returned,  leading  by  the  hand  a  child 
of  fifteen  and  a-half,  a  beauty  of  the  Italian  type.  Made- 
moiselle Judici  inherited  from  her  father  that  ivory  skin  which, 
rather  yellow  by  day,  is  by  artificial  light  of  lily-whiteness ; 
eyes  of  Oriental  beauty,  form,  and  brilliancy,  close  curling 
lashes  like  black  feathers,  hair  of  ebony  hue,  and  that  native 
dignity  of  the  Lombard  race  which  makes  the  foreigner,  as  he 
walks  through  Milan  on  a  Sunday,  fancy  that  every  porter's 
daughter  is  a  princess. 

Atala,  told  by  the  stove-fitter's  daughter  that  she  was  to 
meet  the  great  lady  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much,  had 
hastily  dressed  in  a  black  silk  gown,  a  smart  little  cape,  and 
neat  shoes.  A  cap  with  a  cherry-colored  bow  added  to  the 
brilliant  effect  of  her  coloring.  The  child  stood  in  an  atti- 
tude of  artless  curiosity,  studying  the  baroness  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye,  for  her  palsied  trembling  puzzled  her 
greatly. 

Adeline  sighed  deeply  as  she  saw  this  jewel  of  womanhood 
in  the  mire  of  prostitution,  and  determined  to  rescue  her  to 
virtue. 

'•'  What  is  your  name,  my  dear  ?  " 

*'  Atala,  madame." 

"  And  can  you  read  and  write  ?  " 

"No,  madame;  but  that  does  not  matter,  as  monsieur 
can." 

"Did  your  parents  ever  take  you  to  church  ?  Have  you 
been  to  your  first  communion  ?  Do  you  know  your  cate- 
chism ?" 

"  Madame,"  said  Atala  Judici,  "papa  wanted  to  make  me 
do  something  of  the  kind  you  speak  of,  but  mamma  would 
not  have  it " 


COUSIN  BETTY.  77 

"Your  mother?"  exclaimed  the  baroness.  "Is  she  bad 
to  you,  then  ?  " 

"  She  was  always  beating  me.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  was 
always  being  quarreled  over  by  my  father  and  mother " 

"  Did  you  never  hear  of  God  ?  "  cried  the  baroness. 

The  girl  looked  up  wide-eyed. 

"Oh  yes,  papa  and  mamma  often  said  'Good  God,'  and 
*  In  God's  name,'  and  '  God's  thunder,'  "  said  she,  with  per- 
fect simplicity. 

"  Then  you  never  saw  a  church?  Did  you  never  think  of 
going  into  one?  " 

"A  church? — Notre-Dame,  the  Pantheon?  I  have  seen 
them  from  a  distance,  when  papa  took  me  into  town  ;  but 
that  was  not  very  often.  There  are  no  churches  like  those  in 
the  Faubourg." 

"  Which  Faubourg  did  vou  live  in  ?  " 

"  In  the  Faubourg." 

"Yes,  but  which?" 

"In  the  Rue  de  Charonne,  madame." 

The  inhabitants  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine  never  call 
that  notorious  district  other  than  the  Faubourg.  To  them  it 
is  the  one  and  only  Faubourg  ;  and  manufacturers  generally 
understand  the  words  as  meaning  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine. 

"  Did  no  one  ever  tell  you  what  was  right  or  wrong?  " 

"  Mamma  used  to  beat  me  when  I  did  not  do  what  pleased 
her." 

"But  did  you  not  know  that  it  was  very  wicked  to  run  away 
from  your  father  and  mother  to  go  to  live  with  an  old  man  ?  " 
asked  Madame  Hulot. 

Atala  Judici  gazed  at  the  baroness  with  a  haughty  stare,  but 
made  no  reply. 

"She  is  a  perfect  little  savage,"  murmured  Adeline. 

"There  are  a  great  many  like  her  in  the  Faubourg, 
madame,"  said  the  stove-fitter's  wife. 

"But  she  knows  nothing — not  even  what  is  wrong.     Goo4 


78  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

lieavens !  Why  do  you  not  answer  me?"  said  Madame 
Hulot,  putting  out  her  hand  to  take  Atala's. 

Atala  indignantly  withdrew  a  step. 

*' You  are  an  old  fool !  "  said  she.  "  Why,  my  father  and 
mother  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  a  week.  My  mother 
v/anted  to  make  something  bad  of  me,  I  think,  for  my  father 
thrashed  her  and  called  her  a  thief!  However,  Monsieur 
Vyder  paid  all  their  debts,  and  gave  them  some  money — oh, 
a  bagful !  And  he  brought  me  away,  and  poor  papa  was 
crying.      But  we  had  to  part !     Was  it  wicked?"  she  asked. 

**  And  are  you  very  fond  of  Monsieur  Vyder?  " 

"Fond  of  him?"  said  she.  "I  should  think  so!  He 
tells  me  beautiful  stories,  madame,  every  evening  ;  and  he  has 
given  me  nice  gowns,  and  linen,  and, a  shawl.  Why,  I  am 
figged  out  like  a  princess,  and  I  never  wear  sabots  now.  And, 
then,  I  have  not  known  what  it  is  to  be  hungry  these  two 
months  past.  And  I  don't  live  on  potatoes  now.  He  brings 
me  bonbons  and  burnt  almonds,  and  chocolate  almonds. 
Aren't  they  good?  I  do  anything  he  pleases  for  a  bag  of 
chocolate.  Then  my  old  daddy  is  very  kind ;  he  takes  such 
care  of  me,  and  is  so  nice;  I  know  now  what  my  mother 
ought  to  have  been.  He  is  going  to  get  an  old  woman  to 
help  me,  for  he  doesn't  like  me  to  dirty  my  hands  with  cook- 
ing. For  the  last  month,  too,  he  has  been  making  a  little 
money,  and  he  gives  me  three  francs  every  evening  that  I  put 
into  a  money-box.  Only  he  will  never  let  me  go  out  except 
to  come  here — and  he  calls  me  his  little  kitten  !  Mamma 
never  called  me  anything  but  bad  names — and  thief,  and 
vermin  !  " 

"Well,  then,  my  child,  why  should  not  Daddy  Vyder  be 
your  husband  ?  " 

"But  he  is,  madame,"  said  the  girl,  looking  at  Adeline 
with  calm  pride,  without  a  blush,  her  brow  smooth,  her  eyes 
steady.  "  He  told  me  I  was  his  little  wife ;  but  it  is  a  horrid 
bore  to  be  a  man's  wife — if  it  were  not  for  the  burnt  almonds!" 


COUSIN  BETTY.  79 

"Good  heavens!"  said  the  baroness  to  herself,  "what 
monster  can  have  had  the  heart  to  betray  such  perfect,  such 
holy  innocence  ?  To  restore  this  child  to  the  ways  of  virtue 
would  surely  atone  for  many  sins.  I  knew  what  I  was  doing," 
thought  she,  remembering  the  scene  with  Crevel.  "But  she 
— she  knows  nothing." 

"Do  you  know  Monsieur  Samanon?"  asked  Atala,  with 
an  insinuating  look. 

" No,  my  child ;  but  why  do  you  ask? " 

"  Really  and  truly?  "  said  the  artless  girl. 

"  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  this  lady,"  said  the  Italian 
woman.     "  She  is  an  angel." 

"  It  is  because  mv  good  old  bov  is  afraid  of  being  caught 
by  Samanon.  He  is  hiding,  and  I  wish  he  could  be  altogether 
free " 

"Why?" 

"Oh  !  then  he  would  take  me  to  Bobino,  perhaps  to  the 
Ambigu." 

"What  a  delightful  creature!  "  said  the  baroness,  kissing 
the  2;irl. 

"Are  vou  rich?"  asked  Atala,  who  was  fingering  the 
baroness'  lace  ruffles. 

"Yes,  and  No,"  replied  Madame  Hulot.  "  I  am  rich  for 
dear  little  girls  like  you  when  they  are  willing  to  be  taught 
their  duties  as  Christians  by  a  priest,  and  to  walk  in  the  right 
wav." 

"What  way  is  that?"  said  Atala;  "I  walk  on  mv  two 
feet." 

"  The  way  of  virtue." 

Atala  looked  at  the  kironess  with  a  crafty  smile. 

"Look  at  madame,"  said  the  baroness,  pointing  to  the 
stove-fitter's  wife,  "she  has  been  quite  happy  because  she  was 
received  into  the  bosom  of  the  church.  You  married  like  the 
beasts  that  perish." 

"  I  ?  "  said  Atala.     "  Why,  if  you  will  .s:ive  me  as  much  as 


80  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

Daddy  Vyder  gives  me,  I  shall  be  quite  happy  unmarried 
again.     It  is  a  grind.     Do  you  know  what  it  is  to ?" 

"But  when  once  you  are  united  to  a  man  as  you  are,"  the 
baroness  put  in,  "virtue  requires  you  to  remain  faithful  to 
him." 

"Till  he  dies,"  said  Atala,  with  a  knowing  flash.  "I 
shall  not  have  to  wait  long.  If  you  only  knew  how  Daddy 
Vyder  coughs  and  blows.  Poof,  poof,"  and  she  imitated  the 
old  man. 

"  Virtue  and  morality  require  that  the  church,  representing 
God,  and  the  mayor,  representing  the  law,  should  consecrate 
your  marriage,"  Madame  Hulot  went  on.  "  Look  at  madame; 
she  is  legally  married " 

"Will  it  make  it  more  amusing?"  asked  the  girl. 

"You  will  be  happier,"  said  the  baroness,  "for  no  one 
then  could  blame  you.  You  would  satisfy  God  !  Ask  her  if 
she  was  married  without  the  sacrament  of  marriage  !  " 

Atala  looked  at  the  Italian. 

"  How  is  she  any  better  than  I  am?"  she  asked.  "lam 
prettier  than  she  is." 

"Yes,  but  I  am  an  honest  woman,"  said  the  wife,  "and 
you  may  be  called  by  a  bad  name." 

"  How  can  you  expect  God  to  protect  you  if  you  trample 
every  law,  human  and  divine,  under  foot  ?  "  said  the  baroness. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  God  has  paradise  in  store  for  those 
who  obey  the  injunctions  of  His  church?" 

"What  is  there  in  paradise?     Are  there  playhouses?  " 

"  Paradise  !  "  said  Adeline,  "  is  every  joy  you  can  conceive 
of.  It  is  full  of  angels  with  white  wings.  You  see  God  in  all 
His  glory,  you  share  His  power,  you  are  happy  for  every 
minute  of  eternity  !  " 

Atala  listened  to  the  lady  as  she  might  have  listened  to 
music ;  but  Adeline,  seeing  that  she  was  incapable  of  under- 
standing her,  thought  she  had  better  take  another  line  of  action 
and  speak  to  the  old  man. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  81 

"Go  home,  then,  my  child,  and  I  will  go  to  see  Monsieur 
Vyder.     Is  he  a  Frenchman  ?  " 

"He  is  an  Alsatian,  madame.  But  he  will  be  quite  rich 
soon.  If  you  would  pay  what  he  owes  to  that  vile  Samanon, 
he  would  give  you  back  your  money,  for  in  a  few  months  he 
will  be  getting  six  thousand  francs  a  year,  he  says,  and  we 
are  to  go  to  live  in  the  country  a  long  way  off,  in  the 
Vosges. ' ' 

At  the  word  Vosges  the  baroness  sat  lost  in  reverie.  It 
called  up  the  vision  of  her  native  village.  She  was  roused 
from  her  melancholy  meditation  by  the  entrance  of  the  stove- 
filter,  who  came  to  assure  her  of  his  prosperity. 

"  In  a  year's  time,  madame,  I  can  repay  the  money  you  lent 
us,  for  it  is  God's  money,  the  money  of  the  poor  and  wretched. 
If  ever  I  make  a  fortune,  come  to  me  for  what  you  want,  and 
I  will  render  through  you  the  help  to  others  which  you  first 
brought  us." 

"Just  now,"  said  Madame  Hulot,  "I  do  not  need  your 
money,  but  I  ask  your  assistance  in  a  good  work.  I  have  just 
seen  that  little  Judici,  who  is  living  with  an  old  man,  and  I 
mean  to  see  them  regularly  and  legally  married." 

"Ah!  old  Vyder;  he  is  a  very  worthy  old  fellow,  with 
plenty  of  good  sense.  The  poor  old  man  has  already  made 
friends  in  the  neighborhood,  though  he  has  been  here  but  two 
months.  He  keeps  my  accounts  for  me.  He  is,  I  believe,  a 
brave  colonel  who  served  the  Emperor  well.  And  how  he 
adores  Napoleon  !  He  has  some  orders,  but  he  never  wears 
them.  He  is  waiting  till  he  is  straight  again,  for  he  is  in 
debt,  poor  o)d  boy  !  In  fact,  I  believe  he  is  hiding,  threat- 
ened by  tlie  law " 

"Tell  him  that  I  will  pay  his  debts  if  he  will  marry  the 
child." 

"  Oh,  that  will  soon  be  settled.     Suppose  you  were  to  see 
him,  madame  ;   it  is  not  two  steps  awa,y.  in  the  Passage  du 
Solcil." 
6 


B2  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

So  the  lady  and  the  stove-fitter  went  out. 

"  This  way,  madame,"  said  the  man,  turning  down  the  Rue 
de  la  Pepiniere. 

The  alley  runs,  in  fact,  from  the  bottom  of  this  street 
through  to  the  Rue  du  Rocher.  Half-way  down  this  passage, 
recently  opened  through,  where  the  stores  let  at  a  very  low 
rent,  the  baroness  saw  on  the  window,  screened  up  to  a  height 
with  a  green  gauze  curtain,  which  excluded  the  prying  eyes  of 
the  passer-by,  the  words — 

"  EcRivAiN  Public;  "  and  on  the  door  the  announcement — ■ 

Business  Transacted. 

Petitions  Drawn  Up,  Accounts  Audited,  Etc. 

With  Secrecy  and  Dispatch. 

The  store  was  like  one  of  the  little  offices  where  travelers  by 
omnibus  await  the  vehicles  to  take  them  on  to  their  destination. 
A  private  staircase  led  up,  no  doubt,  to  the  living  rooms  on 
the  entresol  which  were  let  with  the  store.  Madame  Hulot 
saw  a  dirty  writing-table  of  some  light  wood,  some  letter- 
boxes, and  a  wretched  second-hand  chair.  A  cap  with  a  peak 
and  a  greasy  green  shade  for  the  eyes  suggested  either  precau- 
tions for  disguise  or  weak  eyes,  which  was  not  unlikely  in  an 
old  man. 

"  He  is  upstairs,"  said  the  stove-fitter.  "  I  will  go  up  and 
tell  him  to  come  down." 

Adeline  lowered  her  veil  and  took  a  seat.  A  heavy  step 
made  the  narrow  stairs  creak,  and  Adeline  could  not  restrain 
a  piercing  cry  when  she  saw  her  husband,  Baron  Hulot,  in  a 
gray  knitted  jersey,  old  gray  flannel  trousers,  and  slippers. 

"What  is  your  business,  madame?"  said  Hulot,  with  a 
flourish. 

She  rose,  seized  Hulot  by  the  arm,  and  said  in  a  voice 
hoarse  with  emotion — 


COUSIN  BETTY.  83 

"At  last — I  have  found  you  !  " 

"Adeline!  "  exclaimed  the  baron  in  bewilderment,  and  he 
locked  the  store-door.  "Joseph,  go  out  the  back  way,"  he 
added  to  the  stove-fitter. 

"  My  dear  !  "  she  said,  forgetting  everything  in  her  excess- 
ive joy,  "  you  can  come  home  to  us  all ;  we  are  rich.  Your 
son  draws  a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs  a  year  !  Your 
pension  is  released  ;  there  are  fifteen  thousand  francs  of  arrears 
you  can  get  on  showing  that  you  are  alive.  Valerie  is  dead, 
and  left  you  three  hundred  thousand  francs. 

"  Your  name  is  quite  forgotten  by  this  time;  you  may  re- 
appear in  the  world,  and  you  will  find  a  fortune  awaiting  you 
at  your  son's  house.  Come  ;  our  happiness  will  be  complete. 
For  nearly  three  years  have  I  been  seeking  you,  and  I  felt  so 
sure  of  finding  you  that  a  room  is  ready  waiting  for  you.  Oh  ! 
come  away  from  this,  come  away  from  the  dreadful  state  I 
see  you  in  !  " 

"I  am  very  willing,"  said  the  bewildered  baron,  "but  can 
I  take  the  girl?" 

"  Hector,  give  her  up  !  Do  that  much  for  your  Adeline, 
who  has  never  before  asked  you  to  make  the  smallest  sacrifice. 
I  promise  you  I  will  give  the  child  a  marriage  portion  ;  I  will 
see  that  she  marries  well,  and  has  some  education.  Let  it  be 
said  of  one  of  the  women  who  have  given  you  happiness  that 
she,  too,  is  happy;  and  did  not  relapse  into  vice,  into  the 
mire." 

"So  it  was  you,"  said  the  baron,  with  a  smile,  "who 
wanted  to  see  me  married?  Wait  a  few  minutes,"  he  added, 
"  I  will  go  upstairs  and  dress ;  I  have  some  decent  clothes  in  a 
trunk." 

Adeline,  left  alone,  and  looking  round  the  squalid  den, 
melted  into  tears. 

"  He  has  been  living  here,  and  we  rolling  in  wealth  !  "  said 
she  to  herself.  "Poor  man,  he  has  indeed  been  punished — 
he  who  was  elegance  itself." 


84  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

The  stove-fitter  returned  to  make  his  bow  to  his  benefac- 
tress, and  she  desired  him  to  fetch  a  coach.  When  he  came 
back,  she  begged  him  to  give  little  Atala  Judici  a  home,  and 
to  take  her  away  at  once. 

"And  tell  her  that  if  she  will  place  herself  under  the  guid- 
ance of  Monsieur  the  Cure  of  the  Madeleine,  on  the  day  when 
she  attends  her  first  communion  I  will  give  her  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  and  find  her  a  good  husband,  some  worthy  young 
man." 

"  My  eldest  son,  then,  madame !  He  is  two-and-twenty, 
and  he  worships  the  child." 

The  baron  now  came  down  ;  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  forcing,  me  to  desert  the  only  creature  who  has 
ever  begun  to  love  me  at  all  as  you  do  !  "  said  he  in  a  whisper 
to  his  wife.  "  She  is  crying  bitterly,  and  I  cannot  abandon 
her  so " 

"  Be  quite  easy,  Hector.  She  will  find  a  home  with  honest 
people,  and  I  will  answer  for  her  conduct." 

"Well,  then,  I  can  go  with  you,"  said  the  baron,  escorting 
his  wife  to  the  cab. 

Hector,  the  Baron  d'Ervy  once  more,  had  put  on  a  blue 
coat  and  trousers,  a  white  vest,  a  black  stock,  and  gloves. 
When  the  baroness  had  taken  her  seat  in  the  vehicle,  Atala 
slipped  in  like  an  eel. 

"  Oh,  madame,"  she  said,  "let  me  go  with  you.  I  will  be 
so  good,  so  obedient;  I  will  do  whatever  you  wish;  but  do 
not  part  me  from  my  Daddy  Vyder,  my  kind  daddy,  who  gives 
me  such  nice  things.     I  shall  be  beaten " 

"  Come,  come,  Atala,"  said  the  baron,  "  this  lady  is  my 
wife — we  must  part " 

"  She?  As  old  as  that !  and  shaking  like  a  leaf!  "  said  the 
child.  "Look  at  her  head  !  "  and  she  laughingly  mimicked 
the  baroness'  palsy. 

The  stove-fitter,  who  had  run  after  the  girl,  came  to  the 
carriage-door. 


COUSIN  BETTY.  85 

"Take  her  away  !  "  said  Adeline.  The  man  put  his  arms 
round  Atala  and  fairly  carried  her  off. 

"Thanks  for  such  a  sacrifice,  my  dearest,"  said  Adeline, 
taking  the  baron's  hand  and  clutching  it  with  delirious  joy. 
"How  much  you  are  altered!  you  must  have  suffered  so 
much  !     What  a  surprise  for  Hortense  and  for  your  son  !  " 

Adeline  talked  as  lovers  talk  who  meet  after  a  long  absence, 
of  a  hundred  things  at  once. 

In  ten  minutes  the  baron  and  his  wife  reached  the  Rue 
Louis-le-Grand,  and  there  Adeline  found  this  note  awaiting 
her: 

"  Madame  la  Baronne  :— Monsieur  le  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervy 
lived  for  one  month  in  the  Rue  de  Charonne  under  the  name 
of  Thorec,  an  anagram  of  Hector.  He  now  is  in  the  Passage 
de  Soleil  by  the  name  of  Vyder.  He  says  he  is  an  Alsatian, 
and  does  writing,  and  he  lives  with  a  girl  named  Atala  Judici. 
Be  very  cautious,  madame,  for  search  is  on  foot ;  the  baron  is 
wanted,  on  what  score  I  know  not. 

"  The  actress  has  kept  her  word,  and  remains  as  ever, 
"  Madame  le  Baronne,  your  humble  servant, 

"J.  M." 

The  baron's  return  was  hailed  with  such  joy  as  reconciled 
him  to  domestic  life.  He  forgot  little  Atala  Judici,  for  ex- 
cesses of  profligacy  had  reduced  him  to  the  volatility  of  feeling 
that  is  characteristic  of  childhood.  But  the  happiness  of  the 
family  was  dashed  by  the  change  that  had  come  over  him. 
He  had  been  still  hale  when  he  had  gone  away  from  his  home  ; 
he  had  come  back  almost  a  hundred,  broken,  bent,  and  his 
expression  even  debased. 

A  splendid  dinner,  improvised  by  Celestine,  reminded  the 
old  man  of  the  singer's  banquets  ;  he  was  dazzled  by  the 
splendor  of  his  home. 

"A  feast  in  honor  of  the  return  of  the  prodigal  father?" 
said  he  in  a  murmur  to  Adeline. 


86  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  she,  "  all  is  forgotten." 

"And  Betty?"  he  asked,  not  seeing  the  old  maid. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  is  in  bed,"  replied  Hortense.  **  She 
can  never  get  up,  and  we  shall  have  the  grief  of  losing  her  ere 
long. 

''  She  hopes  to  see  you  after  dinner." 

At  daybreak  next  morning  Victorin  Hulot  was  informed  by 
the  porter's  wife  that  soldiers  of  the  municipal  guard  were 
posted  all  around  the  premises  ;  the  police  demanded  Baron 
Hulot.  The  bailiff,  who  had  followed  the  woman,  laid  a 
summons  in  due  form  before  the  lawyer,  and  asked  him 
whether  he  meant  to  pay  his  father's  debts.  The  claim  was 
for  ten  thousand  francs  at  the  suit  of  a  usurer  named  Samanon, 
who  had  probably  lent  the  baron  two  or  three  thousand  at 
most.  Victorin  desired  the  bailiff  to  dismiss  his  men,  and 
paid. 

"  But  is  it  the  last?  "  he  anxiously  wondered. 

Lisbeth,  miserable  already  at  seeing  the  family  so  pros- 
perous, could  not  survive  this  happy  event.  She  grew  so 
rapidly  worse  that  Bianchon  gave  her  but  a  week  to  live,  con- 
quered at  last  in  the  long  struggle  in  which  she  had  scored  so 
many  victories. 

She  kept  the  secret  of  her  hatred  even  through  a  painful 
death  from  pulmonary  consumption.  And,  indeed,  she  had 
the  supreme  satisfaction  of  seeing  Adeline,  Hortense,  Hulot, 
Victorin,  Steinbock,  Celestine,  and  their  children  standing 
in  tears  around  her  bed  and  mourning  for  her  as  the  angel  of 
the  family. 

Baron  Hulot,  enjoying  a  course  of  solid"  food  such  as  he  had 
not  known  for  nearly  three  years,  recovered  flesh  and  strength, 
and  was  almost  himself  again.  This  improvement  was  such 
a  joy  to  Adeline  that  her  nervous  trembling  perceptibly 
diminished. 

"She  will  be  happy  after  all,"  said  Lisbeth  to  herself  on 
the  day  before  she  died,  as  she  saw  the  veneration  with  which 


COUSIN  BETTY.  87 

the  baron  regarded  his  wife,  of  whose  sufferings  he  had  heard 
from  Hortense  and  Victorin. 

And  vindictiveness  hastened  Cousin  Betty's  end.  The 
family  followed  her,  weeping,  to  the  grave. 

The  baron  and  baroness,  having  reached  the  age  which 
looks  for  perfect  rest,  gave  up  the  handsome  rooms  on  the 
second  floor  to  the  Count  and  Countess  Steinbeck,  and  took 
those  above.  The  baron  by  his  son's  exertions  found  an 
official  position  in  the  management  of  a  railroad,  in  1S45, 
with  a  salary  of  six  thousand  francs,  which,  added  to  the  six 
thousand  of  his  pension  and  the  money  left  to  him  by  Madame 
Crevel,  secured  him  an  income  of  twenty-four  thousand  francs. 
Hortense  having  enjoyed  her  independent  income  during  the 
three  years  of  separation  from  Wenceslas,  Victorin  now  in- 
vested the  two  hundred  thousand  francs  he  had  in  trust,  in 
his  sister's  name,  and  he  allowed  her  twelve  thousand  francs 
annuallv. 

Wenceslas,  as  the  husband  of  a  rich  woman,  was  not  un- 
faithful, but  he  was  an  idler;  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
to  begin  any  work,  however  trifling.  Once  more  he  became 
the  artist  in  partibus ;  he  was  popular  in  society,  and  consulted 
by  amateurs;  in  short,  he  became  a  critic,  like  all  the  feeble 
folk  who  fall  below  their  promise. 

Thus  each  household,  though  living  as  one  family,  had  its 
own  fortune.  The  baroness,  taught  by  bitter  experience,  left 
the  management  of  matters  to  her  son,  and  the  baron  was 
thus  reduced  to  his  salary,  in  the  hope  that  the  smallness  of 
his  income  would  prevent  his  relapsing  into  mischief.  And 
by  some  singular  good  fortune,  on  which  neither  the  mother 
nor  the  son  had  reckoned,  Hulot  seemed  to  have  forsworn  the 
fair  sex.  His  subdued  behavior,  ascribed  to  the  course  of 
nature,  so  completely  reassured  the  family,  that  they  enjoyed 
to  the  full  his  recovered  amiability  and  delightful  qualities. 
He  was  unfailingly  attentive  to  his  wife  and  children,  escorted 
them  to  the  play,  reappeared  in   society,  and  did  the  honors 


S8  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

of  his  son's  house  with  exquisite   grace.     In  short,  this  re- 
claimed prodigal  was  the  joy  of  his  family. 

He  was  a  most  agreeable  old  man,  a  ruin,  but  full  of  wit, 
having  retained  no  more  of  his  vice  than  made  it  an  added 
social  grace. 

Of  course,  everybody  was  quite  satisfied  and  easy.  The 
young  people  and  the  baroness  lauded  the  model  father  to  the 
skies,  forgetting  the  death  of  the  two  uncles.  Life  cannot  go 
on  without  much  forgetting  ! 

Madame  Victorin,  who  managed  this  enormous  household 
with  great  skill,  due,  no  doubt,  to  Lisbeth's  training,  had 
found  it  necessary  to  have  a  man-cook.  This  again  necessi- 
tated a  kitchen-maid.  Kitchen-maids  are  in  these  days  ambi- 
tious creatures,  eager  to  detect  the  chef's  secrets,  and  to  be- 
come cooks  as  soon  as  they  have  learnt  to  stir  a  sauce.  Con- 
sequently, the  kitchen-maid  is  liable  to  frequent  change. 

At  the  beginning  of  1845  Celestine  engaged  as  kitchen-maid 
a  sturdy  Normandy  peasant  come  from  Isigny — short- waisted, 
with  strong  red  arms,  a  common  face,  as  dull  as  an  "  oc- 
casional piece  "  at  the  play,  and  hardly  to  be  persuaded  out 
of  wearing  the  classical  linen  cap  peculiar  to  the  women  of 
Lower  Normandy.  This  girl,  as  buxom  as  a  wet-nurse,  looked 
as  if  she  would  burst  the  blue  cotton  check  in  which  she  clothed 
her  person.  Her  florid  face  might  have  been  hewn  out  of 
stone,  so  hard  were  its  tawny  outlines. 

Of  course  no  attention  was  paid  to  the  advent  in  the  house 
of  this  girl,  whose  name  was  Agathe — an  ordinary,  wide-awake 
specimen,  such  as  is  daily  imported  from  the  provinces. 
Agathe  had  no  attractions  for  the  cook,  her  tongue  was  too 
rough,  for  she  had  served  in  a  suburban  inn,  waiting  on  carters; 
and  instead  of  making  a  conquest  of  her  chief  and  winning 
from  him  the  secrets  of  the  high  art  of  tlie  kitchen,  she  was 
the  object  of  his  great  contempt.  The  chef's  attentions  were, 
in  fact,  devoted  to  Louise,  the  Countess  Steinbock's  maid. 
The  country  girl,   thinking  herself  ill-used,  complained  bit- 


COUSIN  BETTY,  89 

terly  that  she  was  always  sent  out  of  the  way  on  some  pretext 
when  the  chef  was  finishing  a  dish  or  putting  the  crowning 
touch  to  a  sauce. 

*'I  am  out  of  luck,"  said  she,  "and  I  shall  go  to  another 
place." 

And  yet  she  stayed,  though  she  had  twice  given  notice  to 
quit. 

One  night,  Adeline,  roused  by  some  unusual  noise,  did  not 
see  Hector  in  the  bed  he  occupied  near  hers ;  for  they  slept 
side  by  side  in  two  beds,  as  beseemed  an  old  couple.  She  lay 
awake  an  hour,  but  he  did  not  return.  Seized  with  a  panic, 
fancying  some  tragic  end  had  overtaken  him — an  apoplectic 
attack,  perhaps — she  went  upstairs  to  the  floor  occupied  by 
the  servants,  and  there  was  attracted  to  the  room  where 
Agathe  slept,  partly  by  seeing  a  light  below  the  door,  and 
partly  by  the  murmur  of  voices.  She  stood  still  in  dismay  on 
recognizing  the  voice  of  her  husband,  who,  a  victim  to 
Agathe's  charms,  to  vanquish  this  strapping  wench's  not  dis- 
interested resistance,  went  to  the  length  of  saying — 

**  My  wife  has  not  long  to  live,  and  if  you  like  you  may  be 
a  baroness." 

Adeline  gave  a  cry,  dropped  her  candlestick,  and  fled. 

Three  days  later  the  baroness,  who  had  received  the  last 
sacraments,  was  dying,  surrounded  by  her  weeping  family. 

Just  before  she  died,  she  took  her  husband's  hand  and 
pressed  it,  murmuring  in  his  ear — 

"  My  dear,  I  had  nothing  left  to  give  up  to  you  but  my  life. 
In  a  minute  or  two  you  will  be  free,  and  can  make  another 
Baroness  Hulot." 

And,  rare  sight,  tears  oozed  from  her  dead  eyes. 

This  desperateness  of  vice  had  vanquished  the  patience  of 
the  angel,  who,  on  the  brink  of  eternity,  gave  utterance  to 
the  only  reproach  she  had  ever  spoken  in  her  life. 

The  baron  left  Paris  three  days  after  his  wife's  funeral. 


90 


THE  POOR   PARENTS. 


Eleven  months  later  Victorin  heard  indirectly  of  his  father's 
marriage  to  Mademoiselle  Agathe  Piquetard,  solemnized  at 
Isigny,  on  the  ist  February,  1846. 

"Parents  may  hinder  their  children's  marriage,  but  chil- 
dren cannot  interfere  with  the  insane  acts  of  their  parents  in 
their  second  childhood,"  said  Maitre  Hulot  to  Maitre  Popi- 
not,  the  second  son  of  the  minister  of  commerce,  who  wag 
discussing  this  marriage. 


THE  POOR  PARENTS 

{Les  Parents  Pauvres). 

COUSIN    PONS. 

Toward  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  one  October  day 
in  the  year  1844,  a  man  of  sixty  or  thereabout,  whom  any- 
body might  have  credited  with  more  than  his  actual  age,  was 
walking  along  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  with  his  head  bent 
down,  as  if  he  were  tracking  some  one.  There  was  a  smug 
expression  about  the  mouth — he  looked  like  a  merchant  who 
has  just  done  a  good  stroke  of  business,  or  a  bachelor  emerging 
from  a  boudoir  in  the  best  of  humors  with  himself;  and  in 
Paris  this  is  the  highest  degree  of  self-satisfaction  ever  regis- 
tered by  a  human  countenance. 

As  soon  as  the  elderly  person  appeared  in  the  distance,  a 
smile  broke  out  over  the  faces  of  the  frequenters  of  the  boule- 
vard, who  daily,  from  their  chairs,  watch  the  passers-by,  and 
indulge  in  the  agreeable  pastime  of  analyzing  them.  That 
smile  is  peculiar  to  Parisians  \  it  says  so  many  things — ironi- 
cal, quizzical,  pitying  ;  but  nothing  save  the  rarest  of  human 
curiosities  can  summon  that  look  of  interest  to  the  faces  of 
Parisians,  sated  as  they  are  with  every  possible  sight. 

A  saying  recorded  of  Hyacinthe,  an  actor  celebrated  for  his 
repartees,  will  explain  the  archaeological  value  of  the  old  gen- 
tleman, and  the  smile  repeated  like  an  echo  by  all  eyes. 
Somebody  once  asked  Hyacinthe  where  the  hats  were  made 
that  set  the  house  in  a  roar  as  soon  as  he  appeared.  "  I  don't 
have  them  made,"  he  said  ;  '•  I  keep  them  !  "  So  also  among 
the  million  actors  who  make  up  the  great  troupe  of  Paris, 
there  are  unconscious  Hyacinthes  who  "  keep"  all  the  absurd 
freaks  of  vanished  fashions  upon  their  backs  ;  and  the  appari- 

(91) 


92  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

tion  of  some  bygone  decade  will  startle  you  into  laughter  as 
you  walk  the  streets  in  bitterness  of  soul  over  the  treason  of 
one  who  was  your  friend  in  the  past. 

In  some  respects  the  passer-by  adhered  so  faithfully  to  the 
fashions  of  the  year  1806  that  he  was  not  so  much  a  burlesque 
caricature  as  a  reproduction  of  the  Empire  period.  To  an 
observer,  accuracy  of  detail  in  a  revival  of  this  sort  is  ex- 
tremely valuable,  but  accuracy  of  detail,  to  be  properly  appre- 
ciated, demands  the  critical  attention  of  an  QXT^tri  flaneur,  or 
rambler  ;  while  the  man  in  the  street  who  raises  a  laugh  as 
soon  as  he  comes  in  sight  is  bound  to  be  one  of  those  out- 
rageous  exhibitions  which  stare  you  in  the  face,  as  the  saying 
goes,  and  produce  the  kind  of  effect  which  an  actor  tries  to 
secure  for  the  success  of  his  entry.  The  elderly  person,  a 
thin,  spare  man,  wore  a  nut-brown  spencer  over  a  coat  of 
uncertain  green,  with  white  metal  buttons.  A  man  in  a 
spencer  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  forty-four  !  it  was 
as  if  Napoleon  himself  had  vouchsafed  to  come  to  life  again 
for  a  couple  of  hours. 

The  spencer,  as  its  name  indicates,  was  the  invention  of  an 
English  lord,  vain,  doubtless,  of  his  handsome  shape.  Some 
time  before  the  Peace  of  Amiens,  this  nobleman  solved  the 
problem  of  covering  the  bust  without  destroying  the  outlines 
of  the  figure  and  encumbering  the  person  with  the  hideous 
boxcoat,  now  finishing  its  career  on  the  backs  of  aged  hackney- 
coach  drivers  ;  but,  elegant  figures  being  in  the  minority,  the 
success  of  the  spencer  was  short-lived  in  France,  English 
though  it  was. 

At  sight  of  the  spencer,  men  of  forty  or  fifty  mentally  in- 
vested the  wearer  with  top-boots,  pistachio-colored  kerseymere 
small  clothes  adorned  with  a  knot  of  ribbon ;  and  beheld 
themselves  in  the  costumes  of  their  youth.  Elderly  ladies 
thought  of  former  conquests  ;  but  the  younger  men  were  ask- 
ing each  other  why  the  aged  Alcibiades  had  cut  off  the  skirts 
of  his  overcoat.     The  rest  of  the  costume  was  so  much  in 


COUSIN  PONS.  93 

keeping  with  the  spencer,  that  you  would  not  have  hesitated 
to  call  the  wearer  *•  an  Empire  man,"  just  as  you  call  a  certain 
kind  of  furniture  "Empire  furniture;"  yet  the  new-comer 
only  symbolized  the  Empire  for  those  who  had  known  that 
great  and  magnificent  epoch  at  any  rate  by  seeing,  for  a  cer- 
tain accuracy  of  memory  was  needed  for  the  full  appreciation 
of  the  costume,  and  even  now  the  Empire  is  so  far  away  that 
not  every  one  of  us  can  picture  it  to  himself  in  its  Gallo-Gre- 
cian  reality. 

The  stranger's  hat,  for  instance,  tipped  to  the  back  of  his 
head  so  as  to  leave  almost  the  whole  forehead  bare,  recalled 
a  certain  jaunty  air,  with  which  civilians  and  officials  attempted 
to  swagger  it  with  military  men  ;  but  the  hat  itself  was  a  shock- 
ing specimen  of  the  fifteen-franc  variety.  Constant  friction 
with  a  pair  of  enormous  ears  had  left  marks  which  no  brush 
could  efface  from  the  underside  of  the  brim ;  the  silk  tissue 
(as  usual)  fitted  badly  over  the  cardboard  foundation,  and 
hung  in  wrinkles  here  and  there  ;  and  some  skin-disease  (ap- 
parently) had  attacked  the  nap  in  spite  of  the  hand  which 
rubbed  it  down  of  a  morning. 

Beneath  the  hat,  which  seemed  ready  to  drop  off  at  any 
moment,  lay  an  expanse  of  countenance  grotesque  and  droll, 
as  the  faces  which  the  Chinese  alone  of  all  people  can  imagine 
for  their  quaint  curiosities.  The  broad  visage  was  as  full  of 
holes  as  a  colander,  honey-combed  with  the  shadows  of  the 
dents,  hollowed  out  like  a  Roman  mask.  It  set  all  the  laws 
of  anatomy  at  defiance.  Close  inspection  foiled  to  detect  the 
substructure.  Where  you  expected  to  find  a  bone,  you  dis- 
covered a  layer  of  cartilaginous  tissue,  and  the  hollows  of  an 
ordinary  human  face  were  here  filled  out  with  flabby  bosses. 
A  pair  of  gray  eyes,  red-rimmed  and  lashless,  looked  forlornly 
out  of  a  countenance  which  was  flattened  something  after  the 
fashion  of  a  pumpkin,  and  surmounted  by  a  Don  Quixote  nose 
that  rose  out  of  it  like  a  monolith  above  a  plain.  It  was  the 
kind  of  nose,  as  Cervantes  must  surely  have  explained  some- 


94  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

where,  which  denotes  an   inborn  enthusiasm  for  all    things 
great,  a  tendency  which  is  apt  to  degenerate  into  credulity. 

And  yet,  though  the  man's  ugliness  was  something  almost 
ludicrous,  it  aroused  not  the  slightest  inclination  to  laugh. 
The  exceeding  melancholy  which  found  an  outlet  in  the  poor 
man's  faded  eyes  reached  the  mocker  himself  and  froze  the 
gibes  on  his  lips ;  for  all  at  once  the  thought  arose  that  this 
was  a  human  creature  to  whom  Nature  had  forbidden  any  ex- 
pression of  love  or  tenderness,  since  such  expression  could 
only  be  painful  or  ridiculous  to  the  woman  he  loved.  In  the 
presence  of  such  misfortune  a  Frenchman  is  silent ;  to  him 
it  seems  the  most  cruel  of  all  afflictions — to  be  unable  to 
please  ! 

The  man  so  ill-favored  was  dressed  after  the  fashion  of 
shabby  gentility,  a  fashion  which  the  rich  not  seldom  try  to 
copy.  He  wore  low  shoes  beneath  gaiters  of  the  pattern  worn 
by  the  Imperial  Guard,  doubtless  for  the  sake  of  economy, 
because  they  kept  the  socks  clean.  The  rusty  tinge  of  his 
black  breeches,  like  the  cut  and  the  white  or  shiny  line  of  the 
creases,  assigned  the  date  of  the  purchase  some  three  years 
back.  The  roomy  garments  failed  to  disguise  the  lean  pro- 
portions of  the  wearer,  due  apparently  rather  to  constiiutiun 
than  to  a  Pythagorean  regimen,  for  the  worthy  man  was  en- 
dowed with  thick  lips  and  a  sensual  mouth  ;  and,  when  he 
smiled,  displayed  a  set  of  white  teeth  which  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  shark. 

A  shawl-vest,  likewise  of  black  cloth,  was  supplemented  by 
a  white  under-vest,  and  yet  again  beneath  this  gleamed  the 
edge  of  a  red  knitted  under-jacket,  to  put  you  in  mind  of 
Garat's  five  vests.  A  huge  white  lawn  stock  with  a  conspicu- 
ous bow,  invented  by  some  exquisite  to  charm  "  the  charming 
sex"  in  1809,  projected  so  far  above  its  wearer's  chin  that  the 
lower  part  of  his  face  was  lost,  as  it  were,  in  a  lawn  abyss.  A 
silk  watch-guard,  plaited  to  resemble  the  keepsakes  made  of 
hair,  meandered  down  his  shirt-front  and  secured  his  watch 


CO  us  IN  PONS.  95 

from  improbable  theft.  The  greenish  coat,  though  older  by 
some  three  years  than  the  breeches,  was  remarkably  neat ;  the 
black  velvet  collar  and  shining  metal  buttons,  recently  re- 
newed, told  of  carefulness  which  descended  even  to  trifles. 

The  particular  manner  of  fixing  the  hat  on  the  occiput,  the 
triple  vest,  the  vast  cravat  engulfing  the  chin,  the  gaiters,  the 
metal  buttons  on  the  greenish  coat — all  these  reminiscences  of 
Imperial  fashions  were  blended  with  a  sort  of  afterwaft  and 
lingering  perfume  of  the  coquetry  of  the  Incroyable* — with  an 
indescribable  finical  something  in  the  folds  of  the  garments,  a 
certain  air  of  stiffness  and  correctness  in  the  demeanor  that 
smacked  of  the  school  of  David,  that  recalled  Jacob's  spindle- 
legged  furniture. 

At  first  sight,  moreover,  you  set  him  down  either  for  the 
gentleman  by  birth  fallen  a  victim  to  some  degrading  habit, 
or  for  the  man  of  small  independent  means  whose  expenses  are 
calculated  to  such  a  nicety  that  the  breakage  of  a  window- 
pane,  a  rent  in  a  coat,  or  a  visit  from  the  philanthropic  pest 
who  asks  you  for  subscriptions  to  a  charity,  absorbs  the  whole 
of  a  month's  little  surplus  of  pocket-money.  If  you  had  seen 
him  that  afternoon,  you  would  have  wondered  how  that  gro- 
tesque face  came  to  be  lighted  up  with  a  smile  ;  usually,  surely, 
it  must  have  worn  the  dispirited,  passive  look  of  the  obscure 
toiler  condemned  to  labor  without  ceasing  for  the  barest  neces- 
saries of  life.  Yet  when  you  noticed  that  the  odd-looking  old 
man  was  carrying  some  object  (evidently  precious)  in  his  right 
hand  with  a  mother's  care,  concealing  it  under  the  skirts  of 
his  coat  to  keep  it  frop"  collisions  in  the  crowd  ;  and  still  more, 
when  you  remarked  that  important  air  always  assumed  by  an 
idler  when  intrusted  with  a  commission,  you  would  have  sus- 
pected him  of  recovering  some  piece  of  lost  property,  some 
modern  equivalent  of  the  marquise's  poodle  ;  you  would  have 
recognized  the  assiduous  gallantry  of  the  *'  man  of  the  Em- 
pire "  returning  in  triumph  from  his  mission  to  some  charm- 

■•"■  A  non-such. 


96  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

ing  woman  of  sixty,  reluctant  as  yet  to  dispense  with  the  daily 
visit  of  her  elderly  atientif. 

In  Paris  only  among  great  cities  will  you  see  such  spectacles 
as  this ;  for  of  her  boulevards  Paris  makes  a  stage  where  a 
never-ending  drama  is  played  gratuitously  by  the  French  nation 
in  the  interests  of  art. 

In  spite  of  the  rashly  assumed  spencer,  you  would  scarcely 
have  thought,  after  a  glance  at  the  contours  of  the  man's  bony 
frame,  that  this  was  an  artist — that  conventional  type  which  is 
privileged,  in  something  the  same  way  as  a  Paris  gamin,  to 
represent  riotous  living  to  the  bourgeois  and  philistine  mind, 
the  most  mirific  joviality,  in  short  (to  use  the  old  Rabelaisian 
word  newly  taken  into  use).  Yet,  this  elderly  person  had 
once  taken  the  medal  and  the  traveling  scholarship  ;  he  had 
composed  the  first  cantata  crowned  by  the  Institute  at  the 
time  of  the  reestablishment  of  the  Academic  de  Rome  ;  he  was 
M.  Sylvain  Pons,  in  fact — M.  Sylvain  Pons,  whose  name  ap- 
pears on  the  covers  of  well-known  sentimental  songs  trilled  by 
our  mothers,  to  say  nothing  of  a  couple  of  operas,  played  in 
1815  and  1 816,  and  divers  unpublished  scores.  The  worthy 
soul  was  now  ending  his  days  as  the  conductor  of  an  orchestra 
in  a  boulevard  theatre,  and  a  music  master  in  several  young 
ladies'  boarding-schools,  a  post  for  which  his  face  particularly 
recommended  him.  He  was  entirely  dependent  upon  his 
earnings.  Running  about  to  give  private  lessons  at  his  age  ! 
Think  of  it.  How  many  a  mystery  lies  in  that  unromantic 
situation  ! 

But  the  last  man  to  wear  the  spencer  carried  something  else 
about  him  beside  his  Empire  associations";  a  warning  and  a 
lesson  was  written  large  over  that  triple  vest.  Wherever  he 
went,  he  exhibited,  without  fee  or  charge,  one  of  the  many 
victims  of  the  fatal  system  of  competition  which  still  prevails 
in  France  in  spite  of  a  century  of  trial  without  result;  for  Po- 
isson  de  Marigny,  brother  of  the  Pompadour  and  Director  of 
Fine  Arts,  somewhere  about   1746,  invented  this  method  of 


COUSIN  PONS.  Q7 

applying  pressure  to  the  brain.  That  was  a  hundred  years 
ago.  Try  if  you  can  count  upon  your  fingers  the  men  of 
genius  among  the  prizemen  of  those  hundred  years. 

In  the  first  place,  no  deliberate  effort  of  sclioolmaster 
or  administrator  can  replace  the  miracles  of  chance  which 
produce  great  men  :  of  all  the  mysteries  of  generation,  this 
most  defies  the  ambitious  modern  scientific  investigator.  In 
the  second — the  ancient  Egyptians  (we  are  told)  invented 
incubator-stoves  for  hatching  eggs ;  what  would  be  thought  of 
Egyptians  who  should  neglect  to  fill  the  beaks  of  the  callow 
fledglings  ?  Yet  this  is  precisely  what  France  is  doing.  She 
does  her  utmost  to  produce  artists  by  the  artificial  heat  of 
competitive  examination ;  but,  the  sculptor,  painter,  engraver, 
or  musician  once  turned  out  by  this  mechanical  process,  she 
no  more  troubles  herself  about  them  and  their  fate  than  the 
dude  cares  for  yesterday's  flower  in  his  button-hole.  And  so 
it  happens  that  the  really  great  man  is  a  Greuze,  a  Watteau,  a 
Felicien  David,  a  Pagnesi,  a  Gericault,  a  Decamps,  an  Auber, 
a  David  d'Angers,  a  Eugene  Delacroix,  or  a  Meissonier — 
artists  who  take  but  little  heed  of  great  prizes,  and  spring  up 
in  the  open  field  under  the  rays  of  that  invisible  sun  called 
Vocation. 

To  resume  :  The  Government  sent  Sylvain  Pons  to  Rome 
to  make  a  great  musician  of  himself;  and  in  Rome  Sylvain 
Pons  acquired  a  taste  for  the  antique  and  works  of  art.  He 
became  an  admirable  judge  of  those  masterpieces  of  the  brain 
and  hand  which  are  summed  up  by  the  useful  neologism 
"bric-a-brac;"  and  when  the  child  of  Euterpe  returned  to 
Paris  somewhere  about  the  year  iSio,  it  was  in  the  character 
of  a  rabid  collector,  loaded  with  pictures,  statuettes,  frames, 
wood-carving,  ivories,  enamels,  porcelains,  and  the  like.  He 
had  sunk  the  greater  part  of  his  patrimony,  not  so  much  in  the 
purchases  themselves  as  on  the  expenses  of  transit ;  and  every 
sou  inherited  from  his  mother  had  been  spent  in  the  course  of 
a  three  years'  travel  in  Italy  after  the  residence  in  Rome  came 
7 


98  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

to  an  end.  He  had  seen  Venice,  Milan,  Florence,  Bologna, 
and  Naples  leisurely,  as  he  wished  to  see  them,  as  a  dreamer 
of  dreams,  and  a  philosopher ;  careless  of  the  future,  for  an 
artist  looks  to  his  talent  for  support  as  \\itfille  de  joie  (daugh- 
ter of  pleasure  or  lorette)  counts  upon  her  beauty. 

All  through  those  splendid  years  of  travel  Pons  was  as  happy 
as  was  possible  to  a  man  with  a  great  soul,  a  sensitive  nature, 
and  a  face  so  ugly  that  any  "success  with  the  fair"  (to  use 
the  stereotyped  formula  of  1809)  was  out  of  the  question  ;  the 
realities  of  life  always  fell  short  of  the  ideals  which  Pons  cre- 
ated for  himself;  the  world  without  was  not  in  tune  with  the 
soul  within,  but  Pons  had  made  up  his  mind  to  the  dissonance. 
Doubtless  the  sense  of  beauty  that  he  had  kept  pure  and  living 
in  his  inmost  soul  was  the  spring  from  which  the  delicate, 
graceful,  and  ingenious  music  flowed  and  won  him  reputation 
between  1810  and  1814. 

Every  reputation  founded  upon  the  fashion  or  the  fancy  of 
the  hour,  or  upon  the  short-lived  follies  of  Paris,  produces  its 
Pons.  No  place  in  the  world  is  so  inexorable  in  great  things; 
no  city  of  the  globe  so  disdainfully  indulgent  in  small.  Pons' 
notes  were  drowned  before  long  in  floods  of  German  harmony 
and  the  music  of  Rossini;  and  if  in  1824  he  was  known  as  an 
agreeable  musician,  a  composer  of  various  drawing-room  melo- 
dies, judge  if  he  was  likely  to  be  famous  in  1831  !  In  1844, 
the  year  in  which  the  single  drama  of  his  obscure  life  began, 
Sylvain  Pons  was  of  no  more  value  than  an  antediluvian  semi- 
quaver ;  dealers  in  music  had  never  heard  of  his  name  though 
he  was  still  composing,  on  scanty  pay,  for  his  own  orchestra 
or  for  neighboring  theatres. 

And  yet,  the  worthy  man  did  justice  to  the  great  masters  of 
our  day;  a  masterpiece  finely  rendered  brought  tears  to  his 
eyes ;  but  his  religion  never  bordered  on  mania,  as  in  the 
case  of  Hoff'mann's  Kreislers ;  he  kept  his  enthusiasm  to  him- 
self; his  delight,  like  the  paradise  reached  by  opium  or  has- 
hish, lay  within  his  own  soul, 


COUSIN  PONS.  99 

The  gift  of  admiration,  o.^  comprehension,  the  single 
faculty  by  v/hich  the  ordinary  man  becomes  the  brother  of 
the  poet,  is  rare  in  this  city  of  Paris,  that  inn  whither  all 
ideas,  like  travelers,  come  to  stay  for  a  while  ;  so  rare  is  it, 
that  Pons  surely  deserves  our  respectful  esteem.  His  personal 
failure  may  seem  anomalous,  but  he  frankly  admitted  that  he 
was  weak  in  harmony.  He  had  neglected  the  study  of 
counterpoint ;  there  was  a  time  when  he  might  have  begun 
his  studies  afresh  and  held  his  own  among  modern  composers, 
when  he  might  have  been,  not  certainly  a  Rossini  but  a 
Herold.  But  he  was  alarmed  by  the  intricacies  of  modern 
orchestration  ;  and  at  length,  in  the  pleasures  of  collecting, 
he  found  such  ever-renewed  compensation  for  his  failure,  that 
if  he  had  been  made  to  choose  between  his  curiosities  and 
the  fame  of  Rossini — will  it  be  believed  ? — Pons  would  have 
pronounced  for  his  beloved  collection. 

Pons  was  of  the  opinion  of  Chenavard,  the  print-collector, 
who  laid  it  down  as  an  axiom — that  you  only  fully  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  looking  at  your  Ruysdael,  Hobbema,  Holbein, 
Raphael,  Murillo,  Greuze,  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  Giorgione, 
Albrecht  Diirer,  or  what  not,  when  you  have  paid  less  than 
sixty  francs  for  your  picture.  Pons  never  gave  more  than  a 
hundred  francs  for  any  purchase.  If  he  laid  out  as  much  as 
fifty  francs,  he  was  careful  to  assure  himself  beforehand  that 
the  object  was  worth  three  thousand.  The  most  beautiful 
thing  in  the  world,  if  it  cost  three  hundred  francs,  did  not 
exist  for  Pons.  Rare  had  been  his  bargains ;  but  he  possessed 
the  three  qualifications  for  success — a  stag's  legs,  an  idler's 
disregard  of  time,  and  the  patience  of  a  Jew. 

This  system,  carried  out  for  forty  years,  in  Rome  or  Paris 
alike,  had  borne  its  fruits.  Since  Pons  returned  from  Italy, 
he  had  regularly  spent  about  two  thousand  francs  a  year  upon 
a  collection  of  masterpieces  of  every  sort  and  description,  a 
collection  hidden  away  from  all  eyes  but  his  own  ;  and  now 
his   catalogue   had    reached    the    incredible    number    1907. 


100  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

Wandering  about  Paris  between  1811  and  1816,  he  had 
picked  up  many  a  treasure  for  ten  francs,  which  would  fetch  a 
thousand  or  twelve  hundred  to-day.  Some  forty-five  thousand 
paintings  change  hands  annually  in  Paris  picture  sales,  and 
these  Pons  had  sifted  through  year  by  year.  Pons  had  Sevres 
porcelain,  piite  tendre,  bought  of  Auvergnats,  those  satellites 
of  the  Black  Band  who  sacked  castles  and  carried  off  the 
marvels  of  Pompadour  France  in  their  tumbrils;  he  had,  in 
fact,  collected  the  drifted  wreck  of  the  seventeenth  and  eigh- 
teenth centuries;  he  recognized  the  genius  of  the  Frencl. 
school,  and  discerned  the  merit  of  the  Lepautres  and  Lavallee- 
Poussins  and  the  rest  of  the  great  obscure  creators  of  the 
Genre  Louis  Quinze  and  the  Genre  Louis  Seize.  Our  modern 
craftsmen  now  draw  without  acknowledgment  from  them, 
pore  incessantly  over  the  treasures  of  the  Cabinet  des  Estampes, 
borrow  adroitly,  and  give  out  their  pastiches^'  for  new  inven- 
tions. Pons  had  obtained  many  a  piece  by  exchange,  and 
therein  lies  the  ineffable  joy  of  the  collector.  The  joy  of 
buying  bric-a-brac  is  a  secondary  delight ;  in  the  give-and- 
take  of  barter  lies  the  joy  of  joys.  Pons  had  begun  by  col- 
lecting snuff-boxes  and  miniatures  ;  his  name  was  unknown  in 
bric-a-bracology,  for  he  seldom  showed  himself  in  salesrooms 
or  in  the  stores  of  well-known  dealers ;  Pons  was  not  aware 
that  his  treasures  had  any  commercial  value. 

The  late  lamented  Dusommerard  tried  his  best  to  gain 
Pons'  confidence,  but  the  prince  of  bric-a-brac  died  before  he 
could  gain  an  entrance  to  the  Pons  museum,  the  one  private 
collection  which  could  compare  with  the  famous  Sauvageot 
museum.  Pons  and  M.  Sauvageot  indeed  resembled  each 
other  in  more  ways  than  one.  M.  Sauvageot,  like  Pons,  was 
a  musician  ;  he  was  likewise  a  comparatively  poor  man,  and 
he  had  collected  his  bric-a-brac  in  much  the  same  way,  with 
the  same  love  of  art,  the  same  hatred  of  rich  capitalists  with 
well-known  names  who  collect  for  the  sake  of  running  up 

*  Copies. 


COUSIN  PONS.  101 

prices  as  cleverly  as  possible.  There  was  yet  another  point 
of  resemblance  between  the  pair :  Pons,  like  his  rival  com- 
petitor and  antagonist,  felt  in  his  heart  an  insatiable  craving 
after  specimens  of  the  craftsman's  skill  and  miracles  of  work- 
manship; he  loved  them  as  a  man  might  love  a  fair  mistress  ; 
an  auction  in  the  salesrooms  in  the  Rue  des  Jeuneurs,  with  its 
accompaniments  of  hammer-strokes  and  brokers'  men,  was  a 
crime  of  "  lese-bric-a-brac  "  in  Pons'  eyes.  Pons'  museum 
was  for  his  own  delight  at  every  hour ;  for  the  soul  created  to 
know  and  feel  all  the  beauty  of  a  masterpiece  has  this  in  com- 
mon with  the  lover — to-day's  joy  is  as  great  as  the  joy  of 
yesterday  ;  possession  never  palls  ;  and  a  masterpiece,  happily, 
never  grows  old.  So  the  object  that  he  held  in  his  hand  with 
such  fatherly  care  could  only  be  a  "find,"  carried  off  with 
what  affection  amateurs  alone  know  ! 

After  the  first  outlines  of  this  biographical  sketch,  every 
one  will  cry  at  once,  "Why!  this  is  the  happiest  man  on 
earth,  in  spite  of  his  ugliness!  "  And,  in  truth,  no  spleen, 
no  dullness  can  resist  the  counter-irritant  supplied  by  a 
"craze,"  the  intellectual  moxa  of  a  hobby.  You  who  can 
no  longer  drink  of  "the  cup  of  pleasure,"  as  it  has  been 
called  through  all  ages,  try  to  collect  something,  no  matter 
what  (people  have  been  known  to  collect  placards),  so  shall 
you  receive  the  small  change  for  the  gold  ingot  of  happiness. 
Have  you  a  hobby?  You  have  transferred  pleasure  to  the 
plane  of  ideas.  And  yet,  you  need  not  envy  the  worthy  Pons ; 
such  envy,  like  all  kindred  sentiments,  would  be  founded 
upon  a  misapprehension. 

With  a  nature  so  sensitive,  with  a  soul  that  lived  by  tireless 
admiration  of  the  magnificent  achievements  of  art,  of  the  high 
rivalry  between  human  toil  and  the  work  of  Nature — Pons  was 
a  slave  to  that  one  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  with  which  God 
surely  \yill  deal  least  hardly;  Pons  M-as  a  glutton.  A  narrow 
income,  combined  with  a  passion  for  bric-a-brac,  condemned 
him   to   a   regimen   so  abhorrent  to  a  discriminating  palate, 


102  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

that,  bachelor  as  he  was,  he  had  cut  the  knot  of  the  problem 
by  dining  out  every  day. 

Now,  in  the  time  of  the  Empire,  celebrities  were  more 
sought  after  than  at  present,  perhaps  because  there  were  so 
few  of  them,  perhaps  because  they  made  little  or  no  political 
pretension.  In  those  days,  beside,  you  could  set  up  for  a 
poet,  a  musician,  or  a  painter,  with  so  little  expense.  Pons, 
being  regarded  as  the  probable  rival  of  Nicolo,  Paer,  and 
Berton,  used  to  receive  so  many  invitations,  that  he  was  forced 
to  keep  a  list  of  engagements,  much  as  barristers  note  down 
the  cases  for  which  they  are  retained.  And  Pons  behaved 
like  an  artist.  He  presented  his  amphitryons  with  copies  of 
his  songs,  he  "  obliged  "  at  the  pianoforte,  he  brought  them 
orders  for  boxes  at  the  Feydeau,  his  own  theatre,  he  organized 
concerts,  he  was  not  above  taking  the  fiddle  himself  sometimes 
in  a  friend's  house,  and  getting  up  a  little  impromptu  dance. 
In  those  days,  all  the  handsome  men  in  France  were  away  at 
the  wars  exchanging  sabre-cuts  with  the  handsome  men  of  the 
Coalition.  Pons  was  said  to  be,  not  ugly,  but  "  peculiar- 
looking,"  after  the  grand  rule  laid  down  by  Moliere  in 
Eliante's  famous  couplets;  but  if  he  sometimes  heard  himself 
described  as  a  ''  charming  man  "  (after  he  had  done  some  fair 
lady  a  service),  his  good  fortune  went  no  further  than  words. 

It  was  between  the  years  1810  and  1816  that  Pons  contracted 
the  unlucky  habit  of  dining  out ;  he  grew  accustomed  to  see 
his  hosts  taking  pains  over  the  dinner,  procuring  the  first  and 
best  of  everything,  bringing  out  their  choicest  vintages,  seeing 
carefully  to  the  dessert,  the  coffee,  and  liqueurs,  giving  him 
of  their  best,  in  short ;  the  best,  moreover,  of  those  times  of 
the  Empire  when  Paris  was  glutted  with  kings  and  queens 
and  princes,  and  many  a  private  house  emulated  royal  splen- 
dors. 

People  used  to  play  at  Royalty  then  as  they  play  nowadays 
at  parliament,  creating  a  whole  host  of  societies  with  presi- 
dents, vice-presidents,  secretaries  and  what  not — agricultural 


COUSIN  PONS.  103 

societies,  industiial  societies,  societies  for  the  promotion  of 
sericulture,  viticulture,  the  growth  of  flax,  and  so  forth. 
Some  have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  look  about  them  for  social 
evils  in  order  to  start  a  society  to  cure  them. 

But  to  return  to  Pons.  A  stomach  thus  educated  is  sure  to 
react  upon  the  owner's  moral  fibre ;  the  demoralization  of  the 
man  varies  directly  with  his  progress  in  the  wisdom  of  cookery. 
Voluptuousness,  lurking  in  every  secret  recess  of  the  heart, 
lays  down  the  law  therein.  Honor  and  resolution  are  battered 
in  breach.  The  tyranny  of  the  palate  has  never  been  de- 
scribed ;  as  a  necessity  of  life  it  escapes  the  criticism  of  litera- 
ture ;  yet  no  one  imagines  how  many  have  been  ruined  by  the 
table.  The  luxury  of  the  table  is  indeed,  in  this  sense,  the 
courtesan's  one  competitor  in  Paris,  beside  representing  in  a 
manner  the  credit  side  in  another  account,  where  she  figures 
as  the  expenditure. 

With  Pons'  decline  and  fall  as  an  artist  came  his  simul- 
taneous transformation  from  invited  guest  to  parasite  and 
hanger-on  ;  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  quit  dinners  so 
excellently  served  for  the  Spartan  soup  of  a  two-franc  dinner. 
Alas  !  alas  !  a  shudder  ran  through  him  at  the  mere  thought 
of  the  great  sacrifices  which  independence  required  him  to 
make.  He  felt  that  he  was  capable  of  sinking  to  even  lower 
depths  for  the  sake  of  good  living,  if  there  was  no  other  way 
of  enjoying  the  first  and  best  of  everything,  of  gobbling 
(vulgar  but  expressive  word)  nice  little  dishes  carefully  pre- 
pared. Pons  lived  like  a  bird,  pilfering  his  meal,  flying  away 
when  he  had  taken  his  fill,  singing  a  few  notes  by  way  of 
return  ;  he  took  a  certain  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  he  lived 
at  the  expense  of  society,  which  asked  of  him — what  but  the 
trifling  toll  of  grimaces?  Like  all  confirmed  bachelors,  who 
hold  their  lodgings  in  horror,  and  live  as  much  as  possible  in 
other  people's  houses.  Pons  was  accustomed  to  the  formulas 
and  facial  contortions  which  do  duty  for  feeling  in  the  world  ; 
he  used  compliments  as  small  change  ;  and  as  far  as  others 


104  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

were  concerned,  he  was  satisfied  with  the  labels  they  bore,  and 
never  plunged  a  too  curious  hand  into  the  sack. 

This  not  intolerable  phase  lasted  for  another  ten  years. 
Such  years !  Pons'  life  was  closing  with  a  rainy  autumn. 
All  through  those  years  he  contrived  to  dine  without  expense 
by  making  himself  necessary  in  the  houses  which  he  frequented. 
He  took  the  first  step  in  the  downward  path  by  undertaking  a 
host  of  small  commissions ;  many  and  many  a  time  Pons  ran 
on  errands  instead  of  the  porter  or  the  servant ;  many  a  pur- 
chase he  made  for  his  entertainers.  He  became  a  kind  of 
harmless,  well-meaning  spy,  sent  by  one  family  into  another; 
but  he  gained  no  credit  with  those  for  whom  he  trudged  about, 
and  so  often  sacrificed  self-respect. 

"  Pons  is  a  bachelor,"  said  they;  "  he  is  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  to  do  with  his  time;  he  is  only  too  glad  to  trot  about 
for  us.     What  else  would  he  do  ?  " 

Very  soon  the  cold  which  old  age  spreads  about  itself  began 
to  set  in  ;  the  communicable  chill  which  sensibly  lowers  the 
social  temperature,  especially  if  the  old  man  is  ugly  and  poor. 
Old  and  ugly  and  poor — is  not  this  to  be  thrice  old  ?  Pons' 
winter  had  begun,  the  winter  which  brings  the  reddened  nose, 
and  frost-nipped  cheeks,  and  the  numbed  fingers,  numb  in 
how  many  ways  ! 

Invitations  very  seldom  came  for  Pons  now.  So  far  from 
seeking  the  society  of  the  parasite,  every  family  accepted  him 
much  as  they  accepted  the  taxes ;  they  valued  nothing  that 
Pons  could  do  for  them  ;  real  services  from  Pons  counted  for 
naught.  The  family  circles  in  which  the  worthy  artist  re- 
volved had  no  respect  for  art  or  letters  ;  they  went  down  on 
their  knees  to  practical  results  ;  they  valued  nothing  but  the 
fortune  or  social  position  acquired  since  the  year  1830.  The 
bourgeoisie  is  afraid  of  intellect  and  genius,  but  Pons'  spirit 
and  manner  were  not  haughty  enough  to  overawe  his  relations, 
and  naturally  he  had  come  at  last  to  be  accounted  less  than 
nothing  with  them,  though  he  was  not  altogether  despised. 


COUSIN  PONS.  105 

He  had  suffered  acutely  among  them,  but,  like  all  timid 
creatures,  he  kept  silence  as  to  his  pain ;  and  so  by  degrees 
schooled  himself  to  hide  his  feelings,  and  learned  to  take 
sanctuary  in  his  inmost  self.  Many  superficial  persons  inter- 
pret this  conduct  by  the  short  word  "  selfishness  ;  "  and,  in- 
deed, the  resemblance  between  the  egoist  and  the  solitary 
human  creature  is  strong  enough  to  seem  to  justify  the  harsher 
verdict ;  and  this  is  especially  true  in  Paris,  where  nobody 
observes  others  closely,  where  all  things  pass  swift  as  waves, 
and  last  as  little  as  a  ministry. 

So  Cousin  Pons  was  accused  of  selfishness  (behind  his  back) ; 
and,  if  the  world  accuses  any  one,  it  usually  finds  him  guilty 
and  condemns  him  into  the  bargain.  Pons  bowed  to  the  de- 
cision. Do  any  of  us  know  how  such  a  timid  nature  is  cast 
down  by  an  unjust  judgment  ?  Who  will  ever  paint  all  that 
the  timid  suffer  ?  This  state  of  things,  now  growing  daily 
worse,  explains  the  sad  expression  on  the  poor  old  musician's 
face  ;  he  lived  by  capitulations  of  which  he  was  ashamed. 
Every  time  we  sin  against  self-respect  at  the  bidding  of  the 
ruling  passion,  we  rivet  its  hold  upon  us ;  the  more  that  pas- 
sion requires  of  us,  the  stronger  it  grows,  every  sacrifice  in- 
creasing, as  it  were,  the  value  of  a  satisfaction  for  which  so 
much  has  been  given  up,  till  the  negative  sum-total  of  re- 
nouncements looms  very  large  in  a  man's  imagination.  Pons, 
for  instance,  after  enduring  the  insolently  patronizing  looks  of 
some  bourgeois,  incased  in  the  buckram  of  stupidity,  sipped 
his  glass  of  port  or  finished  his  quail  with  bread-crumbs,  and 
relished  something  of  the  savor  of  revenge  beside.  "  It  is 
not  too  dear  at  the  price  !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

After  all,  in  the  eyes  of  the  moralist,  there  were  extenuating 
circumstances  in  Pons'  case.  Man  only  lives,  in  fact,  by 
some  personal  satisfaction.  The  pr.ssionless,  perfectly  right- 
eous man  is  not  human  ;  he  is  a  monster,  an  angel  wanting 
wings.  The  angel  of  Christian  mythology  has  nothing  but  a 
head.     On  earth,  the  righteous  person  is  the  sufficiently  tire- 


106  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

some  Grandison,  for  whom  the  very  palpable  Venus  of  the 
Cross-roads  is  sexless. 

Setting  aside  one  or  two  commonplace  adventures  in  Italy, 
in  which  probably  the  climate  accounted  for  his  success,  no 
woman  had  ever  smiled  upon  Pons.  Plenty  of  men  are 
doomed  to  this  fate.  Pons  was  an  abnormal  birtli ;  the  child 
of  parents  well  stricken  in  years,  he  bore  the  stigma  of  his 
untimely  genesis;  his  cadaverous  complexion  might  have  been 
contracted  in  the  flask  of  spirit-of-wine  in  which  science  pre- 
serves some  extraordinary  foetus.  Artist  though  he  was,  with 
his  tender,  dreamy,  sensitive  soul,  he  was  forced  to  accept  the 
character  which  belonged  to  his  face  ;  it  was  hopeless  to  think 
of  love,  and  he  remained  a  bachelor,  not  so  much  of  choice 
as  of  necessity.  Then  Gluttony,  the  sin  of  the  continent 
monk,  beckoned  to  Pons  ;  he  rushed  upon  temptation,  as  he 
had  thrown  his  whole  soul  into  the  adoration  of  art  and  the 
cult  of  music.  Good  cheer  and  bric-a-brac  gave  him  the  small 
change  for  the  love  which  could  spend  itself  in  no  other  way. 
As  for  music,  it  was  his  profession,  and  where  will  you  find  the 
man  who  is  in  love  with  his  means  of  earning  a  livelihood? 
For  it  is  with  a  profession  as  with  marriage:  in  the  great 
length  you  are  sensible  of  nothing  but  the  drawbacks. 

Brillat-Savarin  has  deliberately  set  himself  to  justify  the 
gastronome,  but  perhaps  even  he  has  not  dwelt  sufficiently  on 
the  reality  of  the  pleasures  of  the  table.  The  demands  of  di- 
gestion upon  the  human  economy  produce  an  internal  wrest- 
ling-bout of  human  forces  which  rivals  the  highest  degree  of 
amorous  pleasure.  The  gastronome  is  conscious  of  an  expen- 
diture of  vital  power,  an  expenditure  so  vast  that  the  brain  is 
atrophied  (as  it  were),  that  a  second  brain,  located  in  the 
diaphragm,  may  come  into  play,  and  the  suspension  of  all  the 
faculties  is  in  itself  a  kind  of  intoxication.  A  boa-constrictor 
gorged  with  an  ox  is  so  stupid  with  excess  that  the  creature  is 
easily  killed.  What  man,  on  the  wrong  side  of  forty,  is  rash 
enough  to  work  after  dinner?     And  remark  in  the  same  con- 


COUSIN  PONS.  ]07 

nection,  that  all  great  men  have  been  moderate  eaters.  The 
exhilarating  effect  of  the  wing  of  a  chicken  upon  invalids  re- 
covering from  serious  illness,  and  long  confined  to  a  stinted 
and  carefully  chosen  diet,  has  been  frequently  remarked.  The 
sober  Pons,  whose  whole  enjoyment  was  concentrated  in  the 
exercise  of  his  digestive  organs,  was  in  the  position  of  chronic 
convalescence  ;  he  looked  to  his  dinner  to  give  him  the  utmost 
degree  of  pleasurable  sensation,  and  hitherto  he  had  procured 
such  sensations  daily.  Who  dares  to  bid  farewell  to  old  habit  ? 
Many  a  man  on  the  brink  of  suicide  has  been  plucked  back 
on  the  threshold  of  death  by  the  thought  of  the  cafe  where  he 
plays  his  nightly  game  of  dominoes. 

In  the  year  1S35,  chance  avenged  Pons  for  the  indifference 
of  womankind  by  finding  him  a  prop  for  his  declining  years, 
as  the  saying  goes  ;  and  he,  who  had  been  old  from  his  cradle, 
found  a  support  in  friendship.  Pons  took  to  himself  the  only 
life-partner  permitted  to  him  among  his  kind — an  old  man  and 
a  fellow-musician. 

But  for  La  Fontaine's  fable,  "  Les  Deux  Amis,"  this  sketch 
would  have  borne  the  title  of  The  Two  -Friends ;  but  to  take 
the  name  of  his  divine  storv  would  surelv  be  a  deed  of 
violence,  a  profanation  from  which  every  true  man  of  letters 
would  shrink.  The  title  ought  to  be  borne  alone  and 
for  ever  by  the  fabulist's  masterpiece,  the  revelation  of  his 
soul  and  the  record  of  his  dreams  ;  those  three  words  were  set 
once  and  for  ever  by  the  poet  at  the  head  of  a  page  which  is 
his  by  a  sacred  right  of  ownership ;  for  it  is  a  shrine  before 
which  all  generations,  all  over  the  world,  will  kneel  so  long  as 
the  art  of  printing  shall  endure. 

Pons'  friend  gave  lessons  on  the  pianoforte.  They  met  and 
struck  up  an  acquaintance  in  1S34,  one  prize-day  at  a  board- 
ing-school ;  and  so  congenial  were  their  ways  of  thinking  and 
living,  that  Pons  used  to  say  that  he  had  found  his  friend  too 
late  for  his  happiness.  Never,  perhaps,  did  two  souls,  so  much 
alike,  find  each  other  in  the  great  ocean  of  humanity  which 


108  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

flowed  forth,  in  disobedience  to  the  will  of  God,  from  its 
source  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Before  very  long  the  two 
musicians  could  not  live  without  each  other.  Confidences 
were  exchanged,  and  in  a  week's  time  they  were  like  brothers. 
Schmucke  (for  that  was  his  name)  had  not  believed  that  such 
a  man  as  Pons  existed,  nor  had  Pons  imagined  that  a  Schmucke 
was  possible.  Here  already  you  have  a  sufficient  description 
of  the  good  couple ;  but  it  is  not  every  mind  that  takes  kindly 
to  the  concise  synthetic  method,  and  a  certain  amount  of 
demonstration  is  necessary  if  the  credulous  are  to  accept  the 
conclusion. 

This  pianist,  like  all  other  pianists,  was  a  German.  A 
German,  like  the  eminent  Liszt  and  the  great  Mendelssohn, 
and  Steibelt,  and  Dussek,  and  Meyer,  and  Mozart,  and 
Doelher,  and  Thalberg,  and  Dreschok,  and  Hiller,  and  Leo- 
pold Mayer,  and  Cramer,  and  Zimmerman,  and  Kalkbrenner, 
and  Hertz,  Woertz,  Karr,  Wolff,  Pixis,  and  Clara  Wieck — and 
all  Germans,  generally  speaking.  Schmucke  was  a  great 
musical  composer  doomed  to  remain  a  music-master,  so  utterly 
did  his  character  lack  the  audacitv  which  a  musical  srenius 
needs  if  he  is  to  push  his  way  to  the  front.  A  German's 
naivete  does  not  invariably  last  him  through  his  life  ;  in  some 
cases  it  fails  after  a  certain  age ;  and  even  as  a  cultivator  of 
the  soil  brings  water  from  afar  by  means  of  irrigation  channels, 
so,  from  the  springs  of  his  youth,  does  the  Teuton  draw  the 
simplicity  which  disarms  suspicion — the  perennial  supplies 
with  which  he  fertilizes  his  labors  in  every  field  of  science, 
art,  or  commerce.  A  crafty  Frenchman  here  and  there  will 
turn  a  Parisian  tradesman's  stupidity  to  good  account  in  the 
same  way.  But  Schmucke  had  kept  his  child's  simplicity 
much  as  Pons  continued  to  wear  his  relics  of  the  Empire — all 
unsuspectingly.  The  true  and  noble-hearted  German  was  at 
once  the  theatre  and  the  audience,  making  music  within  him- 
self for  himself  alone.  In  this  city  of  Paris  he  lived  as  a 
nightingale  lives  among  the  thickets ;  and  for  twenty  years  he 


COUSIN  PONS.  109 

sang  on,  mateless,  till  he  met  with  a  second  self  in  the  sym- 
pathetic Pons.* 

Both  Pons  and  Schmucke  were  abundantly  given,  both  by 
heart  and  disposition,  to  the  peculiarly  puky  German  senti- 
mentality which  shows  itself  in  childlike  ways — in  a  {)assion  for 
flowers,  in  that  form  of  nature-worship  which  prompts  a  German 
to  plant  his  garden  beds  with  big  glass  globes  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  miniature  pictures  of  a  view  which  he  can  behold 
about  him  of  a  natural  size  ;  in  the  inquiring  turn  of  mind  that 
sets  a  learned  Teuton  trudging  three  hundred  miles  in  his 
gaiters  in  search  of  a  fact  which  smiles  up  in  his  face  from  a 
wayside  spring,  or  lurks  laughing  under  the  jessamine  leaves 
in  the  backyard ;  or  (to  take  a  final  instance)  in  the  German 
craving  to  endow  every  least  detail  in  creation  with  a  spiritual 
significance,  a  craving  which  produces  sometimes  the  inex- 
plicable work  of  a  Jean  Paul  Richter,  sometimes  Hoffmann's 
tipsiness  in  type,  sometimes  the  folios  with  which  Germany 
hedges  the  simplest  questions  round  about,  lest  haply  any  fool 
should  fall  into  her  intellectual  excavations ;  and,  indeed,  if 
you  fathom  these  abysses,  you  find  nothing  but  a  German  at 
the  bottom. 

Both  friends  were  Catholics.  They  went  to  mass  and  per- 
formed the  duties  of  religion  together;  and,  like  children, 
found  nothing  to  tell  their  confessors.  It  was  their  firm  belief 
that  music  is  to  feeling  and  thought  as  thought  and  feeling  are 
to  speech ;  and  of  their  converse  on  this  system  there  was  no 
end.  Each  made  response  to  the  other  in  orgies  of  sound, 
demonstrating  their  convictions,  each  for  each,  like  lovers. 

Schmucke  was  as  absent-minded  as  Pons  was  wide-awake. 
Pons  was  a  collector,  Schmucke  a  dreamer  of  dreams; 
Schmucke  was  a  student  of  beauty  seen  by  the  soul.  Pons  a 
preserver  of  material  beauty.  Pons  would  catch  sight  of  a 
china  cup  and  buy  it  in  the  time  that  Schmucke  took  to  blow 
his  nose,  wondering  the  while  within  himself  whether  the 
*  See  "  A  Daughter  of  Eve." 


110  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

musical  phrase  that  was  ringing  in  his  brain — the  7notif  from 
Rossini  or  Bellini  or  Beethoven  or  Mozart — had  its  origin  or 
its  counterpart  in  the  world  of  human  thought  and  emotion. 
Schmucke's  economies  were  controlled  by  an  absent  mind, 
Pons  was  a  spendthrift  through  passion,  and  for  both  the 
result  was  the  same — they  had  not  a  penny  on  Saint  Sylvester's 
day. 

Perhaps  Pons  would  have  given  way  under  his  troubles  if  it 
had  not  been  for  this  friendship;  but  life  became  bearable 
when  he  found  some  one  to  whom  he  could  pour  out  his 
heart.  The  first  time  that  he  breathed  a  word  of  his  diffi- 
culties, the  good  German  had  advised  him  to  live  as  he  him- 
self did,  and  eat  bread  and  cheese  at  home  sooner  than  dine 
abroad  at  such  a  cost.  Alas  !  Pons  did  not  dare  to  confess 
that  heart  and  stomach  were  at  war  within  him,  that  he  could 
digest  affronts  which  pained  his  heart,  and,  cost  what  it  might, 
a  good  dinner  that  satisfied  his  palate  was  a  necessity  to  him, 
even  as  your  gay  Lothario  must  have  a  mistress  to  tease. 

In  time  Schmucke  understood ;  not  just  at  once,  for  he  was 
too  much  of  a  Teuton  to  possess  that  gift  of  swift  perception 
in  which  the  French  rejoice;  Schmucke  understood  and 
loved  poor  Pons  the  better.  Nothing  so  fortifies  a  friendship 
as  a  belief  on  the  part  of  one  friend  that  he  is  superior  to  the 
other.  An  angel  could  not  have  found  a  word  to  say  to 
Schmucke  rubbing  his  hand  over  the  discovery  of  the  hold 
that  gluttony  had  gained  over  Pons.  Indeed,  the  good  Ger- 
man adorned  their  breakfast-table  next  morning  with  delica- 
cies of  which  he  went  in  search  himself;  and  every  day  he 
was  careful  to  provide  something  new  for  his  friend,  for  they 
always  breakfasted  together  at  home. 

If  any  one  imagines  that  the  pair  could  escape  ridicule  in 
Paris,  where  nothing  is  respected,  he  cannot  know  that  city. 
When  Schmucke  and  Pons  united  their  riches  and  poverty, 
they  hit  upon  the  economical  expedient  of  lodging  together, 
each  paying  half   the  rent  of   the    very   unequally   divided 


COUSIN  PONS.  Ill 

second-floor  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie  in  the 
Marais.  And  as  it  often  happened  that  they  left  home  to- 
gether and  walked  side  by  side  along  their  beat  of  boulevard, 
the  idlers  of  the  quarter  dubbed  them  "  the  pair  of  nutcrack- 
ers," a  nickname  which  makes  any  portrait  of  Schmucke 
quite  superfluous,  for  he  was  to  Pons  as  the  famous  statue  of 
the  Nurse  of  Niobe  in  the  Vatican  is  to  the  Tribune  Venus. 

Mnie.  Cibot,  portress  of  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Nor- 
mandie, was  the  pivot  on  which  the  domestic  life  of  the  nut- 
crackers turned  \  but  Mme.  Cibot  plays  so  large  a  part  in  the 
drama  which  grew  out  of  their  double  existence,  that  it  will 
be  more  appropriate  to  give  her  portrait  on  her  first  appear- 
ance in  this  Scene  of  Parisian  Life. 

One  thing  remains  to  be  said  of  the  characters  of  the  pair 
of  friends;  but  this  one  thing  is  precisely  the  hardest  to  make 
clear  to  ninety-nine  readers  out  of  a  hundred  in  this  forty- 
seventh  year  of  the  nineteenth  century,  perhaps  by  reason  of 
the  prodigious  financial  development  brought  about  by  the 
railway  system.  It  is  a  little  thing,  and  yet  it  is  much.  It  is 
a  question,  in  fact,  of  giving  an  idea  of  the  extreme  sensitive- 
ness of  their  natures.  Let  us  borrow  an  illustration  from  the 
railways,  if  only  by  way  of  retaliation,  as  it  were,  for  the 
loans  which  they  levy  upon  us.  The  railway  train  of  to-day, 
tearing  over  the  metals,  grinds  away  fine  particles  of  dust, 
grains  so  minute  that  a  traveler  cannot  detect  them  with  the 
eye ;  but  let  a  single  one  of  those  invisible  motes  find  its  way 
into  the  kidneys,  it  will  bring  about  that  most  excruciating, 
and  sometimes  fatal,  disease  known  as  gravel.  And  our  so- 
ciety, rushing  like  a  locomotive  along  its  metaled  track,  is 
heedless  of  the  all  but  imperceptible  dust  made  by  the  grinding 
of  the  wheels ;  but  it  was  otherwise  with  the  two  musicians  : 
the  invisible  grains  of  sand  sank  perpetually  into  the  very 
fibres  of  their  being,  causing  them  intolerable  anguish  of 
heart.  Tender  exceedingly  to  the  pain  of  others,  they  wept 
for  their  own  powerlessness  to  help ;  and  their  own  suscepti- 


112  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

bilities  were  almost  morbidly  acute.  Neither  age  nor  the 
continual  spectacle  of  the  drama  of  Paris  life  had  hardened 
two  souls  still  young  and  childlike  and  pure  ;  the  longer  they 
lived  indeed,  the  more  keenly  they  felt  their  inward  suffering; 
for  so  it  is,  alas  !  with  natures  unsullied  by  the  world,  with 
the  quiet  thinker,  and  with  such  poets  among  poets  as  have 
never  fallen  into  any  excess. 

Since  the  old  men  began  housekeeping  together,  the  day's 
routine  was  very  nearly  the  same  for  them  both.  They 
worked  together  in  harness  in  the  fraternal  fashion  of  the  Paris 
cab-horse  ;  rising  every  morning,  summer  and  winter,  at  seven 
o'clock,  and  setting  out  after  breakfast  to  give  music  lessons 
in  the  boarding-schools,  in  which,  upon  occasion,  they  would 
take  lessons  for  each  other.  Toward  noon  Pons  repaired  to 
his  theatre,  if  there  was  a  rehearsal  on  hand  ;  but  all  his  spare 
moments  were  spent  in  sauntering  on  the  boulevards.  Night 
found  both  of  them  in  the  orchestra  at  the  theatre,  for  Pons 
had  found  a  place  for  Schmucke,  and  upon  this  wise : 

At  the  time  of  their  first  meeting,  Pons  had  just  received 
that  marshal's  baton  of  the  unknown  musical  composer — an 
appointment  as  conductor  of  an  orchestra.  It  had  come  to 
him  unasked,  by  favor  of  Count  Popinot,  a  bourgeois  hero  of 
July,  at  that  time  a  member  of  the  Government.  Count 
Popinot  had  the  license  of  a  theatre  in  his  gift,  and  Count 
Popinot  had  also  an  old  acquaintance  of  the  kind  that  the  suc- 
cessful man  blushes  to  meet.  As  he  rolls  through  the  streets 
of  Paris  in  his  carriage,  it  is  not  pleasant  to  see  his  boyhood's 
chum  down  at  heel,  with  a  coat  of  many  improbable  colors 
and  trousers  innocent  of  straps,  and  a  head  full  of  soaring 
speculations  on  too  grand  a  scale  to  tempt  shy,  easily  scared 
capital.  Moreover,  this  friend  of  his  youth,  Gaudissart  by 
name,  had  done  not  a  little  in  the  past  toward  founding  the 
fortunes  of  the  great  house  of  Popinot.  Popinot,  now  a  count 
and  a  peer  of  France,  after  twice  holding  a  portfolio,  had  no 
wish  to  shake  off  "  the  Illustrious  Gaudissart."     Quite  other- 


COUSIN  PONS.  113 

wise.  The  pomps  and  vanities  of  the  Court  of  the  Citizen- 
King  had  not  spoiled  the  sometime  perfumer's  kind  heart; 
he  wished  to  put  his  ex-commercial  traveler  in  the  way  of 
renewing  his  wardrobe  and  replenishing  his  purse.  So  when 
Gaudissart,  always  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  fair  sex,  ap- 
plied for  the  license  of  a  bankrupt  theatre,  Popinot  granted  it 
on  condition  that  Pons  (a  parasite  of  the  Hotel  Popinot) 
should  be  engaged  as  conductor  of  the  orchestra;  and,  at 
the  same  time,  the  count  was  careful  to  send  certain  elderly 
amateurs  of  beauty  to  the  theatre,  so  that  the  new  manager 
might  be  strongly  supported  financially  by  wealthy  admirers 
of  feminine  charms  revealed  by  the  costume  of  the  ballet. 

Gaudissart  &  Company,  who,  be  it  said,  made  their  fortune, 
hit  upon  the  grand  idea  of  operas  for  the  people,  and  carried 
it  out  in  a  boulevard  theatre  in  1S34.  A  tolerable  conductor, 
who  could  adapt  or  even  compose  a  little  music  upon  occasion, 
was  a  necessity  for  ballets  and  pantomimes ;  but  the  last 
management  had  so  long  been  bankrupt  that  they  could  not 
afford  to  keep  a  transposer  and  copyist.  Pons  therefore  intro- 
duced Schmucke  to  the  company  as  copier  of  music,  a  humble 
calling  which  requires  considerable  of  musical  knowledge ; 
and  Schmucke,  acting  on  Pons'  advice,  came  to  an  under- 
standing with  the  chef-de-service  at  the  opera-comique,  so  sav- 
ing himself  the  clerical  drudgery. 

The  partnership  between  Pons  and  Schmucke  produced  one 
brilliant  result.  Schmucke  being  a  German,  harmony  was  his 
strong  point;  he  looked  over  the  instrumentation  of  Pons' 
compositions,  and  Pons  provided  the  airs.  Here  and  there 
an  amateur  among  the  audience  admired  the  new  pieces  of 
music  which  served  as  accompaniment  to  two  or  three  great 
successes,  but  they  attributed  the  improvement  vaguely  to 
"progress."  No  one  cared  to  know  the  composer's  name ; 
like  occupants  of  the  baignoires,'^  lost  to  view  of  the  house, 

*  Bathing  machine:  a  box  on  wheels,  used  at  watering-places  for  the 
undressing  of  the  bather,  and  then  drawn  into  the  sea. 
8 


114  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

to  gain  a  view  of  the  stage,  Pons  and  Schraucke  eclipsed  then:i- 
selves  by  their  success.  In  Paris  (especially  since  the  Revo- 
lution of  July)  no  one  can  hope  to  succeed  unless  he  will 
push  his  way  quibuscumque  viis  and  with  all  his  might  through 
a  formidable  host  of  competitors ;  but  for  this  feat  a  man 
needs  thews  and  sinews,  and  our  two  friends,  be  it  remem- 
bered, had  that  affection  of  the  heart  which  cripples  all  ambi- 
tious effort. 

Pons,  as  a  rule,  only  went  to  his  theatre  toward  eight 
o'clock,  when  the  piece  in  favor  came  on,  and  overtures  and 
accompaniments  needed  the  strict  ruling  of  the  baton ;  most 
minor  theatres  are  lax  in  such  matters,  and  Pons  felt  the  more 
at  ease  because  he  himself  had  been  by  no  means  grasping  in 
all  his  dealings  with  the  management;  and  Schmucke,  if  need 
be,  could  take  his  place.  Time  went  by,  and  Schmucke  be- 
came an  institution  in  the  orchestra ;  the  Illustrious  Gaudis- 
sart  said  nothing,  but  he  was  well  aware  of  the  value  of  Pon's 
collaborator.  He  was  obliged  to  include  a  pianoforte  in  the 
orchestra  (following  the  example  of  the  leading  theatres)  ;  the 
instrument  was  placed  beside  the  conductor's  chair,  and 
Schmucke  played  without  increase  of  salary — a  volunteer  su- 
pernumerary. As  Schmucke's  character,  his  utter  lack  of 
ambition  or  pretense,  became  known,  the  orchestra  recognized 
him  as  one  of  themselves  ;  and,  as  time  went  on,  he  was  in- 
trusted with  the  often-needed  miscellaneous  musical  instru- 
ments which  form  no  part  of  the  regular  band  of  a  boulevard 
theatre.  For  a  very  small  addition  to  his  stipend,  Schmucke 
played  the  viola  d'amore,  hautboy,  violoncello,  and  harp,  as 
well  as  the  piano,  the  castanets  for  the  cachucha,  the  bells, 
saxehorn,  and  the  like.  If  the  Germans  cannot  draw  harmony 
from  the  mighty  instruments  of  Liberty,  yet  to  play  all  instru- 
ments of  music  comes  to  them  by  nature. 

The  two  old  artists  were  exceedingly  popular  at  the  theatre, 
and  took  its  ways  philosophically.  They  had  put,  as  it  were, 
scales  over  their  eyes,  lest  they  should  see  the  offenses  that 


COUSIN  PONS.  115 

needa  must  come  when  a  corps  de  ballet  is  blended  with  actors 
and  actresses,  one  of  the  most  trying  combinations  ever 
created  by  the  laws  of  supply  and  demand  for  the  torment  of 
managers,  authors,  and  composers  alike. 

Every  one  esteemed  Pons  with  his  kindness  and  his  modesty, 
his  great  self-respect  and  respect  for  others ;  for  a  pure  and 
limpid  life  wins  something  like  admiration  from  the  worst 
nature  in  every  social  sphere,  and  in  Paris  a  fair  virtue  meets 
with  something  of  the  success  of  a  large  diamond,  so  great 
a  rarity  it  is.  No  actor,  no  dancer  however  brazen,  would 
have  indulged  in  the  mildest  practical  joke  at  the  expense  of 
either  Pons  or  Schmucke. 

Pons  very  occasionally  put  in  an  appearance  in  the  green- 
room;  but  all  that  Schmucke  knew  of  the  theatre  was  the 
underground  passage  from  the  street-door  to  the  orchestra. 
Sometimes,  however,  during  an  interval,  the  good  German 
would  venture  to  make  a  survey  of  the  house  and  ask  a  few 
questions  of  the  first  flute,  a  young  fellow  from  Strasbourg, 
who  came  of  a  German  family  at  Kehl.  Gradually  under  the 
flute's  tuition  Schmucke's  childlike  imagination  acquired  a 
certain  amount  of  knowledge  of  the  world :  he  could  believe 
in  the  existence  of  that  fabulous  creature  the  lorette,  the  pos- 
sibility of  "marriages  at  the  thirteenth  arrondissement,"  the 
vagaries  of  the  leading  lady,  and  the  contraband  traffic  carried 
on  by  box-openers.  In  his  eyes  the  more  harmless  forms  of 
vice  were  the  lowest  depths  of  Babylonish  iniquity ;  he  did 
not  believe  the  stories,  he  smiled  at  them  for  grotesque  inven- 
tions. The  ingenious  reader  can  see  that  Pons  and  Schmucke 
were  exploited,  to  use  a  word  much  in  fashion;  but  what  they 
lost  in  money  they  gained  in  consideration  and  kindly  treat- 
ment. 

It  was  after  the  success  of  the  ballet  with  which  a  run  of 
success  began  for  the  Gaudissart  Company  that  the  manage- 
ment presented  Pons  with  a  piece  of  plate — a  group  of  figures 
attributed  to  Benvenuto  Cellini.     The  alarming  costliness  of 


116  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

the  gift  caused  talk  in  the  green-room.  It  was  a  matter  of 
twelve  hundred  francs  !  Pons,  poor  honest  soul,  was  for  re- 
turning the  present,  and  Gaudissart  had  a  world  of  trouble  to 
persuade  him  to  keep  it. 

"Ah  !  "  said  the  manager  afterward,  when  he  told  his  part- 
ner of  the  interview,  "  if  we  could  only  find  actors  up  to  that 
sample !  " 

In  their  joint  life,  outwardly  so  quiet,  there  was  the  one 
disturbing  element — the  weakness  to  which  Pons  sacrificed, 
the  insatiable  craving  to  dine  out.  Whenever  Schmucke  hap- 
pened to  be  at  home  while  Pons  was  dressing  for  the  evening, 
the  good  German  would  bewail  this  deplorable  habit. 

*'  Gif  only  he  vas  ony  fatter  vor  it  !  "  he  many  a  time  cried. 

And  Schmucke  would  dream  of  curing  his  friend  of  his  de- 
grading vice,  for  a  true  friend's  instinct  in  all  that  belongs  to 
the  inner  life  is  unerring  as  a  dog's  sense  of  smell ;  a  friend 
knows  by  intuition  the  trouble  in  his  friend's  soul,  and  guesses 
at  the  cause  and  ponders  it  in  his  heart. 

Pons,  who  always  wore  a  diamond  ring  on  the  little  finger 
of  his  right  hand,  an  ornament  permitted  in  the  time  of  the 
Empire,  but  ridiculous  to-day — Pons,  who  belonged  to  the 
"troubadour  time,"  the  sentimental  period  of  the  First  Em- 
pire, was  too  much  a  child  of  his  age,  too  much  of  a  French- 
man to  wear  the  expression  of  divine  serenity  which  softened 
Schmucke's  hideous  ugliness.  From  Pons'  melancholy  looks, 
Schmucke  knew  that  the  profession  of  parasite  was  growing 
daily  more  difficult  and  painful.  And,  in  fact,  in  that  month 
of  October,  1844,  the  number  of  houses  at  which  Pons  dined 
was  naturally  much  restricted  ;  reduced  to  move  round  and 
round  the  family  circle,  he  had  used  the  word  family  in  far 
too  wide  a  sense,  as  will  shortly  be  seen. 

M.  Camusot,  the  rich  silk  mercer  of  the  Rue  des  Bourdon- 
nais,  had  married  Pons'  first  cousin.  Mile.  Pons,  only^  child 
and  heiress  of  one  of  the  well-known  firm  of  Pons  Brothers, 
court  embroiderers.     Pons'   own   father  and    mother  retired 


COUSIN  PONS.  117 

from  a  firm  founded  before  the  Revolution  of  1789,  leaving 
their  capital  in  the  business  until  Mile.  Pons'  father  sold  it  in 
1815  to  a  M.  Rivet.  M.  Camusot  had  since  lost  his  wife  and 
married  again,  and  retired  from  business  some  ten  years,  and 
now  in  1844  he  was  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  a  deputy, 
and  what  not.  But  the  Camusot  clan  were  friendly ;  and 
Pons,  good  man,  still  considered  that  he  was  some  kind  of 
cousin  to  the  children  of  the  second  marriage,  who  were  not 
relations,  or  even  connected  with  him  in  any  way. 

The  second  Mme.  Camusot  being  a  Mile.  Cardot,  Pons  in- 
troduced himself  as  a  relative  into  the  tolerably  numerous 
Cardot  family,  a  second  bourgeois  tribe  which,  taken  with  its 
connections,  formed  quite  as  strong  a  clan  as  the  Camusots ; 
for  Cardot  the  notary  (brother  of  the  second  Mme,  Camusot) 
had  married  a  Mile.  Chiffreville ;  and  the  well-known  family 
of  ChiflFreville,  the  leading  firm  of  manufacturing  chemists, 
was  closely  connected  with  the  wholesale  drug  trade,  of  which 
M.  Anselme  Popinot  was  for  many  years  the  undisputed  head, 
until  the  Revolution  of  July  plunged  him  into  the  very  centre 
of  the  dynastic  movement,  as  everybody  knows.  So  Pons, 
in  the  wake  of  the  Camusots  and  Cardots,  reached  the  Chif- 
frevilles,  and  thence  the  Popinots,  always  in  the  character  of 
a  cousin's  cousin. 

The  above  concise  statement  of  Pons'  relations  with  his 
entertainers  explains  how  it  came  to  pass  that  an  old  musician 
was  received  in  1844  as  one  of  the  family  in  the  houses  of 
four  distinguished  persons — to  wit,  M.  le  Comte  Popinot, 
peer  of  France,  and  twice  in  office;  M.  Cardot,  retired  no- 
tary, mayor  and  deputy  of  an  arrondissement  in  Paris ;  M. 
Camusot  senior,  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trade  and  the 
Municipal  Council  of  Paris,  and  a  deputy  on  the  high  way 
to  the  Upper  Chamber  and  a  peerage ;  and,  lastly,  M.  Cam- 
usot de  Marville,  Camusot's  son  by  his  first  marriage,  and 
Pons'  one  genuine  relation,  albeit  even  he  was  a  first  cousin 
once  removed. 


118  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

This  Carnusot,  president  of  a  chamber  of  the  Court  of  Ap- 
peals in  Paris,  had  taken  the  name  of  his  estate  at  Marville 
to  distinguish  himself  from  his  father  and  a  younger  half- 
brother. 

Cardot  the  retired  notary  had  married  his  daughter  to  his 
successor,  whose  name  was  Berthier;  and  Pons,  transferred  as 
part  of  the  connection,  acquired  a  right  to  dine  with  the  Ber- 
thiers  "  in  the  presence  of  a  notary,"  as  he  put  it. 

This  was  the  bourgeois  empyrean  which  Pons  called  his 
*'  family,"  that  upper  world  in  which  he  so  painfully  reserved 
his  right  to  a  knife  and  fork. 

Of  all  these  houses,  some  ten  in  all,  the  one  in  which  Pons 
ought  to  have  met  with  the  kindest  reception  should  by  rights 
have  been  his  own  cousin's ;  and,  indeed,  he  paid  most  atten- 
tion to  President  Camusot's  family.  But,  alas  !  Mme.  Cam- 
usot  de  Marville,  daughter  of  the  Sicur  Thirion,  usher  of  the 
cabinet  to  Louis  XVIII.  and  Charles  X.,  had  never  taken  very 
kindly  to  her  husband's  first  cousin,  once  removed.  Pons  had 
tried  to  soften  this  formidable  relative  ;  he  wasted  his  time  ;  for, 
in  spite  of  the  pianoforte  lessons  which  he  gave  gratuitously  to 
Mile.  Camusot,  a  young  woman  with  hair  somewhat  inclined 
to  red,  it  was  impossible  to  make  a  musician  of  her. 

And  now,  at  this  very  moment,  as  he  walked  with  that 
previous  object  in  his  hand.  Pons  was  bound  for  the  president's 
house,  where  he  always  felt  as  if  he  were  at  the  Tuileries  itself, 
so  heavily  did  the  solemn  green  curtains,  the  carmelite-brown 
hangings,  thick  piled  carpets,  heavy  furniture,  and  general 
atmosphere  of  magisterial  severity  oppress  his  soul.  Strange 
as  it  may  seem,  he  felt  more  at  home  in  the  Hotel  Popinot, 
Rue  Basse-du-Rempart,  probably  because  it  was  full  of  works 
of  art ;  for  the  master  of  the  house,  since  he  entered  public 
life,  had  acquired  a  mania  for  collecting  beautiful  things,  by 
way  of  contrast,  no  doubt,  for  a  politician  is  obliged  to  pay 
for  secret  services  of  the  ugliest  kind. 

President  de  Marville  lived  in  the  Rue  de  Hanovre,  in  a 


COUSIN  PONS.  119 

house  which  his  wife  had  bought  ten  years  previously,  on  the 
death  of  her  parents,  for  the  Sieur  and  Dame  Thirion  left  their 
daughter  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  the  sav- 
ings of  a  lifetime.  With  its  northern  aspect,  the  house  looks 
gloomy  enough  seen  from  the  street,  but  the  back  looks  toward 
the  south  over  the  courtyard,  with  a  rather  pretty  garden  be- 
yond it.  As  the  president  occupied  the  whole  of  the  second 
floor,  once  the  abode  of  a  great  financier  of  the  time  of  Louis 
XIV.,  and  the  third  was  let  to  a  wealthy  old  lady,  the  house 
wore  a  look  of  dignified  repose  befitting  a  magistrate's  resi- 
dence. President  Camusot  had  invested  all  that  he  inherited 
from  his  mother,  together  witli  the  savings  of  twenty  years,  in 
the  purchase  of  the  splendid  Marville  estate  ;  a  castle  (as  fine 
a  relic  of  the  past  as  you  will  find  to-day  in  Normandy)  stand- 
ing in  a  hundred  acres  of  park-land,  and  a  fine  dependent 
farm,  nominally  bringing  in  twelve  thousand  francs  per  annum, 
though,  as  it  cost  the  president  at  least  a  thousand  crowns  to 
keep  up  a  state  almost  princely  in  our  days,  his  yearly  revenue, 
"  all  told,"  as  the  saying  is,  was  a  bare  nine  thousand  francs. 
With  this  and  his  salary,  the  president's  income  amounted  to 
about  twenty  thousand  francs  ;  but  though  to  all  appearance  a 
wealthy  man,  especially  as  one-half  of  his  father's  property 
would  one  day  revert  to  him  as  the  only  child  of  the  first  mar- 
riage, he  was  obliged  to  live  in  Paris  as  befitted  his  official 
position,  and  M.  and  Mme.  de  Marville  spent  almost  the  whole 
of  their  incomes.  Indeed,  before  the  year  1834,  they  felt 
pinched. 

This  family  schedule  sufficiently  explains  why  Mile,  de  Mar- 
ville, aged  three-and-twenty,  was  still  unwed,  in  spite  of  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  of  dowry  and  tempting  prospects, 
frequently,  skillfully,  but  so  far  vainly,  held  out.  For  the  past 
five  years  Pons  had  listened  to  Mme.  la  Presidente's  lamenta- 
tions as  she  beheld  one  young  lawyer  after  another  led  to  the 
alter,  while  all  the  newly  appointed  judges  at  the  Tribunal  were 
fathers  of  families  already;  and  she,  all  this  time,  had  dis- 


120  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

played  Mile,  de  Marville's  brilliant  expectations  before  the 
undazzled  eyes  of  young  Vicomte  Popinot,  eldest  son  of  the 
great  man  of  the  drug  trade,  he  of  whom  it  was  said  by  the 
envious  tongues  of  the  neighborhood  of  the  Rue  des  Lom- 
bards that  the  Revolution  of  July  had  been  brought  about  at 
least  as  much  for  his  particular  benefit  as  for  the  sake  of  the 
Orleans  branch. 

Arrived  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Choiseul  and  the  Rue 
de  Hanovre,  Pons  suffered  from  the  inexplicable  emotions 
which  torment  clear  consciences ;  from  a  panic-terror  such  as 
the  worst  of  scoundrels  might  feel  at  sight  of  a  policeman,  an 
agony  caused  solely  by  a  doubt  as  to  Mme.  de  Marville's  prob- 
able reception  of  him.  That  grain  of  sand,  grating  continually 
on  the  fibres  of  his  heart,  so  far  from  losing  its  angles,  grew 
more  and  more  jagged,  and  the  family  in  the  Rue  de  Hanovre 
always  sharpened  the  edges.  Indeed,  their  unceremonious 
treatment  and  Pons'  depreciation  in  value  among  them  hud 
affected  the  servants ;  and,  while  they  did  not  exactly  fail  in 
respect,  they  looked  on  the  poor  relation  as  a  kind  of  beggar. 

Pons'  arch-enemy  in  the  house  was  the  ladies'- maid,  a  thin 
and  weazened  spinster,  Madeleine  Vivet  by  name.  This 
Madeleine,  in  spite  of,  nay,  perhaps  on  the  strength  of,  a 
pimpled  complexion  and  a  viper-like  length  of  spine,  had 
made  up  her  mind  that  some  day  she  would  be  Mme.  Pons. 
But  in  vain  she  dangled  twenty-thousand  francs  of  savings 
before  the  old  bachelor's  eyes  ;  Pons  had  declined  happiness 
accompanied  by  so  many  pimples.  From  that  time  forth  the 
Dido  of  the  antechamber,  who  fain  would  have  called  her 
master  and  mistress  "  cousin,"  wreaked  her  spite  in  petty  ways 
upon  the  poor  musician.  She  heard  him  on  the  stairs,  and 
cried  audibly,  "  Oh  !  here  comes  the  sponger  !  "  She  stinted 
him  of  wine  when  she  waited  at  dinner  in  the  footman's 
absence ;  she  filled  the  water-glass  to  the  brim,  to  give  him 
the  difficult  task  of  lifting  it  without  spilling  a  drop  ;  or  she 
would  pass  the  old  man  over  altogether,  till  the  mistress  of  the 


COUSIN  PONS.  12' 

house  would  remind  lier  (and  in  what  a  tone ! — it  Drought  the 
color  to  the  poor  cousin's  face)  ;  cr  she  would  spill  the  gravy 
over  his  clothes.  In  short,  she  waged  petty  war  after  the 
manner  of  a  small  mind,  knowing  that  she  could  annoy  an 
unfortunate  superior  with  impunity. 

Madeleine  Vivet  was  Mme.  de  Marville's  maid  and  house- 
keeper. She  had  lived  with  M.  and  Mme.  Camusot  de  Mar- 
ville  since  their  marriage ;  she  had  shared  the  early  struggles 
in  the  provinces  when  M.  Camusot  was  a  judge  at  Alen^on  ; 
she  had  helped  them  to  exist  when  M.  Camusot,  president  of 
the  Tribunal  of  Mantes,  came  to  Paris,  in  1828,  to  be  an  ex- 
amining magistrate.  She  was,  therefore,  too  much  one  of  the 
family  not  to  wish,  for  reasons  of  lier  own,  to  revenge  herself 
upon  them.  Beneath  her  desire  to  play  a  trick  upon  her 
haughty  and  ambitious  mistress,  and  to  call  her  master  her 
cousin,  there  surely  lurked  a  long-stifled  hatred,  built  up  like 
an  avalanche,  upon  the  pebble  of  some  past  grievance. 

"  Here  comes  your  Monsieur  Pons,  raadame,  still  wearing 
that  spencer  of  his !  "  Madeleine  came  to  tell  Mme.  the  Presi- 
dente.  "  He  really  might  tell  me  how  he  manages  to  make  it 
look  the  same  for  five-and-twenty  years  together." 

Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville,  hearing  a  man's  footstep  in  the 
little  drawing-room  between  the  large  drawing-room  and  her 
bedroom,  looked  meaningly  at  her  daughter  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"You  always  make  these  announcements  so  cleverly  that 
you  leave  me  no  time  to  think,  Madeleine." 

"Jean  is  out,  madame;  I  was  all  alone;  Monsieur  Pons 
rang  the  bell,  I  opened  the  door;  and,  as  he  is  almost  one  of 
the  family,  I  could  not  prevent  him  from  coming  after  me. 
There  he  is,  taking  off  his  spencer." 

"Poor  little  puss!"  said  the  presidente,  addressing  her 
daughter,  "we  are  caught.  We  shall  have  to  dine  at  home 
now.  Let  us  see,"  she  added,  seeing  that  the  "dear  puss" 
wore  a  piteous  face  ;  "  must  we  get  rid  of  him  for  good?" 


122  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

"Oh!  poor  man!"  cried  Mile.  Camusot,  "deprive  him 
of  one  of  his  dinners?  " 

Somebody  coughed  significantly  in  the  next  room  by  way 
of  warning  that  he  could  hear. 

"  Very  well,  let  him  come  in  !  "  said  Mme.  Camusot,  look- 
ing at  Madeleine  with  another  shrug. 

"You  are  here  so  early,  cousin,  that  you  have  come  in  upon 
us  just  as  mother  was  about  to  dress,"  said  Cecile  Camusot  in 
a  coaxing  tone.  But  Cousin  Pons  had  caught  sight  of  the 
presidente's  shrug,  and  felt  so  cruelly  hurt  that  he  could  not 
find  a  compliment,  and  contented  himself  with  the  profound 
remark,  "You  are  always  charming,  my  little  cousin." 

Then,  turning  to  the  mother,  he  continued,  with  a  bow — 

"  You  will  not  take  it  amiss,  I  think,  if  I  have  come  a  little 
earlier  than  usual,  dear  cousin  ;  I  have  brought  something  for 
you  ;   you  once  did  me  the  pleasure  of  asking  me  for  it." 

Poor  Pons  !  Every  time  he  addressed  the  president,  the 
president's  wife,  or  Cecile  as  "  cousin,"  he  gave  them  excru- 
ciating annoyance.  As  he  spoke,  he  drew  a  long,  narrow 
cherry-wood  box,  marvelously  carved,  from  his  coat-pocket. 

"Oh,  did  I?     I  had  forgotten,"  the  lady  answered  drily. 

It  was  a  heartless  speech,  was  it  not?  Did  not  those  few 
words  deny  all  merit  to  the  pains  taken  for  her  by  the  cousin 
whose  one  offense  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  poor  relation  ? 

"But  it  is  very  kind  of  you,  cousin,"  she  added.  "How 
much  do  I  owe  you  for  this  little  trifle?" 

Pons  quivered  inwardly  at  the  question.  He  had  meant 
the  trinket  as  a  return  for  his  dinners. 

"  I  thought  that  you  would  permit  me  to  offer  it  you " 

"  What  ?  "  said  Mme.  Camusot.  "  Oh  !  but  there  need  be 
no  ceremony  between  us ;  we  know  each  otlier  well  enough 
to  wash  our  linen  among  ourselves.  I  know  very  well  that 
you  are  not  rich  enough  to  give  more  than  you  get.  And  to 
go  no  further,  it  is  quite  enough  that  you  should  have  spent  a 
good  deal  of  time  in  running  about  among  the  dealers " 


COUSIN  PONS.  Vl?^ 

**  If  you  were  asked  to  pay  the  full  price  of  the  fan,  my 
dear  cousin,  you  would  not  care  to  have  it,"  answered  poor 
Pons,  hurt  and  insulted  ;  "  it  is  one  of  Watteau's  masterpieces, 
painted  on  both  sides ;  but  you  may  be  quite  easy,  cousin,  I 
did  not  give  one-hundredth  part  of  its  value  as  a  work  of 
art." 

To  tell  a  rich  man  that  he  is  poor  !  you  might  as  well  tell 
the  Archbishop  of  Granada  that  his  homilies  show  signs  of 
senility.  Mme.  la  Presidente,  proud  oi  her  husband's  posi- 
tion, of  the  estate  of  Marville,  and  her  invitations  to  court 
balls,  was  keenly  susceptible  on  this  point;  and,  what  was 
worse,  the  remark  came  from  a  poverty-stricken  musician  to 
whom  she  had  been  charitable. 

"  Then  the  people  of  whom  you  buy  things  of  this  kind  are 
very  stupid,  are  they?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

"Stupid  dealers  are  unknown  in  Paris,"  Pons  answered 
almost  drily. 

"Then  you  must  be  very  clever,"  put  in  Cecile  by  way  of 
calming  the  dispute. 

"  Clever  enough  to  know  a  Lancret,  a  Watteau,  a  Pater,  or 
Greuze  when  I  see  it,  little  cousin ;  but  anxious,  most  of  all, 
to  please  your  dear  mamma." 

Mme.  de  Marville,  ignorant  and  vain,  was  unwilling  to 
appear  to  receive  the  slightest  trifle  from  the  paiasite;  and 
here  her  isrnorance  served  her  admirablv,  she  did  not  even 
know  the  name  of  Watteau.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  if  any- 
thing can  measure  the  extent  of  the  collector's  passion,  which, 
in  truth,  is  one  of  the  most  deeply  seated  of  all  passions, 
rivaling  the  very  vanity  of  the  author — if  anything  can  give 
an  idea  of  the  lengths  to  which  a  collector  will  go,  it  is  the 
audacity  which  Pons  displayed  on  this  occasion,  as  he  held 
his  own  against  his  lady  cousin  for  the  first  time  in  twenty 
years.  He  was  amazed  at  his  own  boldness.  He  made  Cecile 
see  the  beauties  of  the  delicate  carving  on  the  sticks  of  this 
wonder,  and  as  he  talked  to   her  his  face  grew  serene  and 


124  THE  POOR   PARENTS, 

gentle  again.  But  without  some  sketch  of  the  presidente,  it  is 
impossible  fully  to  understand  the  perturbation  of  heart  from 
wliich  Pons  suffered. 

Mme.  de  Marville  had  been  short  and  fair,  plump  and 
fresh  ;  at  forty-six  she  was  as  short  as  ever,  but  she  looked 
dried  up.  An  arched  forehead  and  thin  lips,  that  had  been 
softly  colored  once,  lent  a  soured  look  to  a  face  naturally  dis- 
dainful, and  now  grown  hard  and  unpleasant  with  a  long 
course  of  absolute  domestic  rule.  Time  had  deepened  her 
fair  hair  to  a  harsh  chestnut  hue ;  the  pride  of  office,  intensi- 
fied by  suppressed  envy,  looked  out  of  eyes  that  had  lost  none 
of  their  brightness  nor  their  satirical  expression.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  felt  almost  poor  in  the 
society  of  self-made  wealthy  bourgeois  with  whom  Pons  dined. 
She  could  not  forgive  the  rich  retail  druggist,  ex-president  of 
the  Commercial  Court,  for  his  successive  elevations  as  deputy, 
member  of  the  Government,  count  and  peer  of  France.  She 
could  not  forgive  her  father-in-law  for  putting  himself  forward 
instead  of  his  eldest  son  as  deputy  of  his  arrondissement  after 
Popinot's  promotion  to  the  peerage.  After  eighteen  years  of 
services  in  Paris,  she  was  still  waiting  for  the  post  of  Coun- 
cilor of  the  Court  of  Cassation  for  her  husband.  It  was  Camu- 
sot's  own  incompetence,  well  known  at  the  Law  Courts,  which 
excluded  him  from  the  Council.  The  Home  Secretary  of  1844 
even  regretted  Camusot's  nomination  to  the  presidency  of  the 
Court  of  Indictments  in  1834,  though,  thanks  to  his  past  ex- 
perience as  an  examining  magistrate,  he  made  himself  useful 
in  drafting  decrees. 

These  disappointments  had  told  upon  Mme.  de  Marville, 
who,  moreover,  had  formed  a  tolerably  correct  estimate  of  her 
husband.  A  temper  naturally  shrewish  was  soured  till  she 
grew  positively  terrible.  She  was  not  old,  but  she  had  aged ; 
she  deliberately  set  herself  to  extort  by  fear  all  that  the  world 
was  inclined  to  refuse  her,  and  was  harsh  and  rasping  as  a  file. 
Caustic  to  excess,  she  had  few  friends  among  women  \  she  sur- 


COUSIN  POXS.  125 

rounded  heiself  with  prim,  elderly  matrons  of  her  own  stamp, 
who  lent  each  other  mutual  support,  and  people  stood  in  awe 
of  her.  As  for  poor  Pons,  his  relations  with  this  fiend  in  petti- 
coats were  very  much  those  of  a  schoolboy  with  the  master 
whose  one  means  of  communication  is  the  ferule. 

The  presidente  had  no  idea  of  the  value  of  the  gift.  She 
was  puzzled  by  her  cousin's  sudden  access  of  audacity. 

"Then,  where  did  you  find  this?"  inquired  Cecile,  as  she 
looked  closely  at  the  trinket. 

"  In  the  Rue  de  Lappe.  A  dealer  in  second-hand  furniture 
there  had  just  brought  it  back  with  him  from  a  castle  that  is 
being  pulled  dov.a  near  Dreux,  Aulnay.  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour used  to  spend  part  of  her  time  there  before  she  built 
Menars.  Some  of  the  most  splendid  wood-carving  ever 
known  has  been  saved  from  destruction  ;  Lienard  (our  most 
famous  living  wood-carver)  has  kept  a  couple  of  oval  frames 
for  models,  as  the  ne plus  ultra  of  the  art,  so  fine  it  is.  There 
were  treasures  in  that  place.  My  man  found  the  fan  in  the 
drawer  of  an  inlaid  whatnot,  which  I  should  certainly  have 
bought  if  I  were  collecting  things  of  the  kind,  but  it  is  quite 
out  of  the  question — a  single  piece  of  Riesener's  furniture  is 
worth  three  or  four  thousand  francs  !  People  here  in  Paris  are 
just  beginning  to  find  out  that  the  famous  French  and  Ger- 
man marquetry  workers  of  the  sixteenth,  seventeenth,  and 
eighteenth  centuries  composed  perfect  pictures  in  wood.  It 
is  a  collector's  business  to  be  ahead  of  the  fashion.  Why, 
in  five  years'  time,  the  Frankent'nal  ware,  which  I  have  been 
collecting  these  twenty  years,  will  fetch  twice  the  price  of 
Sevres /(//^  Uniire." 

"  What  is  Frankenthal  ware  ?  "  asked  Cecile. 

*'  That  is  the  name  for  the  porcelain  made  by  the  Elector  of 
the  Palatinate  :  it  dates  further  back  than  our  manufactory  at 
Sevres ;  just  as  the  famous  gardens  at  Heidelberg,  laid  waste 
by  Turenne,  had  the  bad  luck  to  exist  before  the  gardens  of 
Versailles.     Sevres  copied  Frankenthal  to  a  large  extent.     In 


126  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

justice  to  the  Germans,  it  must  be  said  that  they  have  done 
admirable  work  in  Saxony  and  in  the  Palatinate." 

Mother  and  daughter  looked  at  one  another  as  if  Pons  were 
speaking  Chinese.  No  one  can  imagine  how  ignorant  and 
exclusive  Parisians  are ;  they  only  learn  what  they  are  taught, 
and  that  only  when  they  choose. 

"And  how  do  you  know  the  Frankenthal  ware  when  you 
see  it?" 

"  Eh  !  by  the  mark  !  "  cried  Pons  with  enthusiasm.  "  There 
is  a  mark  on  every  one  of  those  exquisite  masterpieces. 
Frankenthal  ware  is  marked  with  a  C  and  T  (for  Charles 
Theodore)  interlaced  and  crowned.  On  old  Dresden  china 
there  are  two  crossed  swords  and  the  number  of  the  order  in 
gilt  figures.  Vincennes  bears  a  hunting-horn ;  Vienna,  a  V 
closed  and  barred.  You  can  tell  Berlin  by  the  two  bars, 
Mayence  by  the  wheel,  and  Sevres  by  the  two  crossed  L's. 
The  queen's  porcelain  is  marked  A  for  Antoinette,  with  a 
royal  crown  above  it.  In  the  eighteenth  century  all  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe  had  rival  porcelain  factories,  and 
workmen  were  kidnapped.  Watteau  designed  services  for 
the  Dresden  factory ;  they  fetch  frantic  prices  at  the  present 
day.  One  has  to  know  what  one  is  about  with  them  too,  for 
they  are  turning  out  imitations  now  at  Dresden.  Wonderful 
things  they  used  to  make  ;  they  will  never  make  the  like  again 
and " 

"Oh!  pshaw!" 

"  No,  cousin.  Some  inlaid  work  and  some  kinds  of  por- 
celain will  never  be  made  again,  just  as  there  will  never  be 
another  Raphael,  nor  Titian,  nor  Rembrandt,  nor  Van  Eyck, 
nor  Cranach.  Well,  now !  there  are  the  Chinese  ;  they  are 
very  ingenious,  very  clever ;  they  make  modern  copies  of  their 
*  grand  mandarin  '  porcelain,  as  it  is  called.  But  a  pair  of 
genuine  old  '  grand  mandarin '  vases  of  the  largest  size  are 
worth  six,  eight,  and  ten  thousand  francs,  while  you  can  buy 
the  modern  replicas  for  a  couple  of  hundred  !  " 


COUSIN  PONS.  127 

*'  You  are  joking." 

"You  are  astonished  at  the  prices,  but  that  is  nothing, 
cousin.  A  dinner  service  of  Sevres  pate  iendre  (and  pate 
iendre  is  not  porcelain) — a  complete  dinner-service  of  Sevres 
pate  tendre  for  twelve  persons  is  not  merely  worth  a  hundred 
thousand  francs,  but  that  is  the  price  charged  on  the  invoice. 
Such  a  dinner-service  cost  fifty  thousand  francs  at  Sfevres  in 
1750;  I  have  seen  the  original  invoices." 

"But  let  us  go  back  to  this  fan,"  said  Cecile.  Evidently 
in  her  opinion  the  trinket  was  an  old-fashioned  thing. 

"  You  can  understand  that  as  soon  as  your  dear  mamma  did 
me  the  honor  of  asking  for  a  fan,  I  went  the  round  of  all  the 
curiosity  stores  in  Paris,  but  I  found  nothing  fine  enough.  I 
wanted  nothing  less  than  a  masterpiece  for  the  dear  presidente, 
and  thought  of  giving  her  one  that  once  belonged  to  Marie 
Antoinette,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  celebrated  fans.  But 
yesterday  I  was  dazzled  by  this  divine  chef-d^ ceuvre,  which 
certainly  must  have  been  ordered  by  Louis  XV.  himself.  Do 
you  ask  how  I  came  to  look  for  fans  in  the  Rue  de  Lappe, 
among  an  Auvergnat's  stock  of  brass  and  iron  and  ormolu 
furniture?  Well,  I  myself  believe  that  there  is  an  intelligence 
in  works  of  art ;  they  know  art-iovers,  they  call  to  them — 
'Cht-tt!'" 

Mme.  de  !Marville  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  looked  at 
her  daughter;  Pons  did  not  notice  the  rapid  pantomime. 

"  I  know  all  those  sharpers,"  continued  Pons,  "so  I  asked 
him,  '  Anything  fresh  to-day,  Daddy  Monistrol  ?  ' — (for  he 
always  lets  me  look  over  his  lots  before  the  big  buyers  come) 
— and  at  that  he  began  to  tell  me  how  Lienard,  that  did  such 
beautiful  work  for  the  Government  in  the  Chapelle  de  Dreux, 
had  been  at  the  Aulnay  sale  and  rescued  the  carved  panels 
out  of  the  clutches  of  the  Paris  dealers,  while  their  heads  were 
running  on  china  and  inlaid  furniture.  '  I  did  not  do  much 
myself,'  he  went  on,  'but  I  may  make  my  traveling  ex- 
penses out  of  this,^  and  he  showed  me  a  whatnot;  a  marvel  ! 


128  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

Boucher's  designs  executed  in  marquetry,  and  with  such  art  ! 
One  could  have  gone  down  on  one's  knees  before  it.  '  Look, 
sir,'  he  said,  '  I  have  just  found  this  fan  in  a  little  drawer  ;  it 
was  locked,  I  had  to  force  it  open.  You  might  tell  me  where 
I  can  sell  it ' — and  with  that  he  brings  me  out  this  little  carved 
cherry-wood  box.  '  See,'  says  he,  '  it  is  the  kind  of  Pompa- 
dour that  looks  like  decorated  Gothic'  *  Yes,'  I  told  him, 
*  the  box  is  pretty  ;  the  box  might  suit  me  ;  but  as  for  the  fan, 
Monistrol,  I  have  no  Mme.  Pons  to  give  the  old  trinket  to, 
and  they  make  very  pretty  new  ones  nowadays ;  you  can  buy 
miracles  of  painting  on  vellum  cheaply  enough.  There  are 
two  thousand  painters  in  Paris,  you  know.'  And  I  opened 
out  the  fan  carelessly,  keeping  down  my  admiration,  looking 
indifferently  at  those  two  exquisite  little  pictures,  touched  off 
with  an  ease  fit  to  send  you  into  raptures.  I  held  Madame 
de  Pompadour's  fan  in  my  hand  !  Watteau  had  done  his 
utmost  for  this.  '  What  do  you  want  for  the  whatnot  ? '  '  Oh  ! 
a  thousand  francs ;  I  have  had  a  bid  already.'  I  offered  him 
a  price  for  the  fan  corresponding  with  the  probable  expenses 
of  the  journey.  We  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes,  and  I  saw 
that  I  had  my  man.  I  put  the  fan  back  into  the  box  lest  my 
Auvergnat  should  begin  to  look  at  it,  and  went  into  ecstasies 
over  the  box ;  indeed,  it  is  a  jewel.  '  If  I  take  it,'  said  I,  '  it 
is  for  the  sake  of  the  box  ;  the  box  tempts  me.  As  for  the 
whatnot,  you  will  get  more  than  a  thousand  francs  for  that. 
Just  see  how  the  brass  is  wrought ;  it  is  a  model.  There  is 
business  in  it.  It  has  never  been  copied  ;  it  is  a  unique  speci- 
men, made  solely  for  Madame  de  Pompadour' — and  so  on, 
till  my  man,  all  on  fire  for  his  whatnot,  .forgets  the  fan,  and 
lets  me  have  it  for  a  mere  trifle,  because  I  have  pointed  out 
the  beauties  of  this  piece  of  Riesener's  furniture.  So  here  it 
is !  but  it  needs  a  great  deal  of  experience  to  make  such  a 
bargain  as  that.  It  is  a  duel,  eye  to  eye  ;  and  who  has  such 
eyes  as  a  Jew  or  an  Auvergnat  ?  " 

The  old  artist's  wonderful  pantomime,  his  vivid,  eager  way 


COUSIN  PONS.  120 

of  telling  the  story  of  the  triumph  of  his  shrewdness  over  the 
dealer's  ignorance,  would  have  made  a  subject  for  a  Dutch 
painter;  but  it  was  all  thrown  away  upon  the  audience. 
Mother  and  daughter  exchanged  cold,  contemptuous  glances. 
"  What  an  oddity  !  "  they  seemed  to  say. 

"So  it  amuses  you?"  remarked  Mnie.  de  Marville.  The 
question  sent  a  cold  chill  through  Pons ;  he  felt  a  strong  de- 
sire to  slap  the  presidente. 

''Why,  my  dear  cousin,  that  is  the  way  to  hunt  down  a 
work  of  art.  You  are  face  to  face  with  antagonists  that  dis- 
pute the  game  with  you.  It  is  craft  against  craft !  A  work 
of  art  in  the  hands  of  a  Norman,  an  Auvergnat,  or  a  Jew  is 
like  a  princess  guarded  by  magicians  in  a  fairy  tale." 

"And  how  can  you  tell  that  this  is  by  Wat what  do 

you  call  him?  " 

"  Watteau,  cousin.  One  of  the  greatest  eighteenth-century 
pamters  in  France.  Look !  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  his 
work?"  (pointing  to  a  pastoral  scene,  court-shepherd  swains 
and  shepherdesses  dancing  in  a  ring).  "  The  movement !  the 
life  in  it !  the  coloring  !  There  it  is — see  ! — painted  with  a 
stroke  of  the  brush,  as  a  writing-master  makes  a  flourish  with 
a  pen.  Not  a  trace  of  eff'ort  here  !  And,  turn  it  over,  look  ! 
— a  ball  in  the  drawing-room.  Summer  and  Winter  !  And 
what  ornaments  !  and  how  well  preserved  it  is  !  The  hinge- 
pin  is  gold,  you  see,  and,  on  cleaning  it,  I  found  a  tiny  ruby 
at  either  end." 

"If  it  is  so,  cousin,  I  could  not  think  of  accepting  such  a 
valuable  present  from  you.  It  would  be  better  to  lay  up  the 
money  for  yourself,"  said  Mme.  de  Marville;  but,  all  the 
same,  she  asked  no  better  than  to  keep  the  article  of  virtu, 
that  splendid  fan. 

"  It  is  time  that  it  should  pass  from  the  service  of  Vice  into 
the  hands  of  Virtue,"  said  the  good  soul,  recovering  his  as- 
surance. "  It  has  taken  a  century  to  work  the  miracle.  No 
princess  at  Court,  you  may  be  sure,  will  have  anything  to 
9 


130  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

compare  with  it ;  for,  unfortunately,  men  will  do  more  for  a 
Pompadour  than  for  a  virtuous  queen,  such  is  human  nature." 

"Very  well,"  Mme.  de  Marville  said,  laughing,  "I  will 
accept  your  present.  Cecile,  my  angel,  go  to  Madeleine  and 
see  that  dinner  is  worthy  of  your  cousin." 

Mme.  de  Marville  wished  to  make  matters  even.  Her  re- 
quest, made  aloud,  in  defiance  of  all  rules  of  good  taste, 
sounded  so  much  like  an  attempt  to  repay  at  once  the  balance 
due  to  the  poor  cousin,  that  Pons  flushed  red,  like  a  girl  found 
out  in  fault.  The  grain  of  sand  was  a  little  too  large  ;  for 
some  moments  he  could  only  let  it  work  in  his  heart.  Cecile, 
a  red-haired  young  woman,  with  a  touch  of  pedantic  affecta- 
tion, combined  her  father's  ponderous  manner  with  a  trace 
of  her  mother's  hardness.  She  went  and  left  poor  Pons  face 
to  face  with  the  terrible  presidente. 

"  How  nice  she  is,  my  little  Lili !  "  said  the  mother.  She 
still  called  her  Cecile  by  this  baby  name. 

"  Charming  !  "  said  Pons,  twirling  his  thumbs. 

"I  cannot  understand  these  times  in  which  we  live,"  broke 
out  the  presidente.  "What  is  the  good  of  having  a  president 
of  the  Court  of  Appeal  in  Paris  and  a  commander  of  the  Le- 
gion of  Honor  for  your  father,  and  for  a  grandfather  the 
richest  wholesale  silk  merchant  in  Paris,  a  deputy,  and  a  mil- 
lionaire that  will  be  a  peer  of  France  some  of  these  days?" 

The  president's  zeal  for  the  new  Government  had,  in  fact, 
recently  been  rewarded  with  a  commander's  ribbon — thanks 
to  his  friendship  with  Popinot,  said  the  envious.  Popinot 
himself,  modest  though  he  was,  had,  as  has  been  seen,  accepted 
the  title  of  count,  "  for  his  son's  sake,"  he  told  his  numerous 
friends. 

<'  Men  look  for  nothing  but  money  nowadays,"  said  Cousin 
Pons.  "  No  one  thinks  anything  of  you  unless  you  are  rich, 
and " 

"What  would  it  have  been  if  heaven  had  spared  my  poor 
little  Charles  !  "  cried  the  lady. 


COUSIN  PONS.  131 

''Oh,  with  two  children  you  would  be  poor,"  returned  the 
cousin.  "  It  practically  means  the  division  of  the  property. 
But  you  need  not  trouble  yourself,  cousin  ;  Cecile  is  sure  to 
marry  sooner  or  later.  She  is  the  most  accomplished  girl  I 
know." 

To  such  depths  had  Pons  fallen  by  adapting  himself  to  the 
company  of  his  entertainers  !  In  their  houses  he  echoed  their 
ideas,  and  said  the  obvious  thing,  after  the  manner  of  a  chorus 
in  a  Greek  play.  He  did  not  dare  to  give  free  play  to  the 
artist's  originality,  which  had  overflowed  in  bright  repartee 
when  he  was  young;  he  had  effaced  himself,  till  he  had  almost 
lost  his  individuality  ;  and  if  the  real  Pons  appeared,  as  he  had 
done  a  moment  ago,  he  was  immediately  repressed. 

"  But  I  myself  was  married  with  only  twenty  thousand  francs 
for  my  portion " 

"  In  1819,  cousin.  And  it  was  you,  a  woman  with  a  head 
on  your  shoulders,  and  the  royal  protection  of  Louis  XVIII." 

"But  still,  my  child  is  a  perfect  angel.  She  is  clever,  she 
has  a  warm  heart,  she  will  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs  on 
her  wedding-day,  to  say  nothing  of  the  most  brilliant  expecta- 
tions; and  yet  she  stays  on  our  hands,"  and  so  on  and  so  on. 
For  twenty  minutes,  Mme.  de  Marville  talked  on  about  her- 
self and  her  Cecile,  pitying  herself  after  the  manner  of  mothers 
in  bondage  to  marriageable  daughters. 

Pons  had  dined  at  the  house  every  week  for  twenty  years, 
and  Camusot  de  Marville  was  the  only  cousin  he  had  in  the 
world ;  but  he  had  yet  to  hear  the  first  word  spoken  as  to  his 
own  affairs — nobody  cared  to  know  how  he  lived.  Here  and 
elsewhere  the  poor  cousin  was  a  kind  of  sink  down  which  his 
relatives  poured  domestic  confidences.  His  discretion  was 
well  known  ;  indeed,  was  he  not  bound  over  to  silence  when 
a  single  imprudent  word  would  have  shut  the  doors  of  ten 
houses  upon  him  ?  And  he  must  combine  his  role  of  listener 
with  a  second  part :  he  must  applaud  continually,  smile  on 
every  one,  accuse  nobody,  defend  nobody ;  from  his  point  of 


132  THE  POOR  PAREXTS. 

view,  every  one  must  be  in  the  right.  And  so,  in  the  house 
of  his  kinsmen,  Pons  no  longer  counted  as  a  man;  he  was  a 
digestive  apparatus. 

In  the  course  of  a  long  tirade,  Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville 
avowed  with  due  circumspection  that  she  was  prepared  to  take 
almost  any  son-in-law  with  her  eyes  shut.  She  was  even  dis- 
posed to  think  that  at  eight-and-forty  or  so  a  man  with  twenty 
thousand  francs  a  year  was  a  good  match. 

"  Cecile  is  in  her  twenty-third  year.  If  it  should  fall  out 
so  unfortunately  that  she  is  not  married  before  she  is  five  or 
six-and-twenty,  it  will  be  extremely  hard  to  marry  her  at  all. 
When  a  girl  reaches  that  age,  people  want  to  know  why  she 
has  been  so  long  on  hand.  We  are  a  good  deal  talked  about 
in  our  set.  We  have  come  to  an  end  of  all  the  ordinary 
excuses — '  She  is  so  young.  She  is  so  fond  of  her  father  and 
mother  that  she  doesn't  like  to  leave  them.  She  is  so  happy 
at  home.  She  is  hard  to  please,  she  would  like  a  good 
name '  We  are  beginning  to  look  silly ;  I  feel  that  dis- 
tinctly. And,  beside,  Cecile  is  tired  of  waiting,  poor  child, 
she  suffers " 

"  In  what  way?"  Pons  was  noodle  enough  to  ask. 

"Why,  because  it  is  humiliating  to  her  to  see  all  her  girl 
friends  married  before  her,"  replied  the  mother,  with  a 
duenna's  air. 

"But,  cousin,  has  anything  happened  since  the  last  time 
that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  dining  here?  Why  do  you  think 
of  men  of  eight-and-forty?"  Pons  inquired  humbly. 

"This  has  happened,"  returned  the  presidente.  "We 
were  to  have  had  an  interview  with  a  court  councilor  ;  his  son 
is  thirty  years  old  and  very  well-to-do,  and  Monsieur  de  Mar- 
ville would  have  obtained  a  post  in  the  Audit  Office  for  him 
and  paid  the  money.  The  young  man  is  a  supernumerary 
there  at  present.  And  now  they  tell  us  that  he  has  taken  it 
into  his  head  to  rush  off  to  Italy  in  the  train  of  a  duchess  from 
the  Bal  Mabille It  is  nothing  but  a  refusal  in  disguise. 


COUSIN  PONS.  133 

TIic  fact  is,  the  young  man's  mother  is  dead  ;  he  has  an  in- 
come of  thirty  tliousand  francs,  and  more  to  come  at  his 
father's  death,  and  they  don't  care  about  the  match  for  him. 
You  have  just  come  in  in  the  middle  of  all  this,  dear  cousin, 
so  you  must  excuse  our  bad  temper." 

While  Pons  was  casting  about  for  the  complimentary  answer 
which  invariably  occurred  to  him  too  late  when  he  was  afraid 
of  his  host,  Madeleine  came  in,  handed  a  folded  note  to  the 
presidente,  and  waited  for  an  answer.    The  note  ran  as  follows  : 

"  Dear  Mamma  : — If  we  pretend  that  this  note  comes  to 
you  from  papa  at  the  Palais,  and  that  he  wants  us  both  to  dine 
with  his  friend  because  proposals  have  been  renewed — then 
the  cousin  will  go,  and  we  can  carry  out  our  own  plan  of 
going  to  the  Popinots." 

"Who  brought  the  master's  note?"  the  presidente  asked 
quickly. 

"A  lad  from  the  Salle  du  Palais,"*  the  withered  waiting- 
woman  unblushingly  answered,  and  her  mistress  knew  at  once 
that  Madeleine  had  woven  the  plot  with  Cecile,  now  at  the 
end  of  her  patience. 

"Tell  him  that  we  will  both  be  there  at  half-past  five." 

Madeleine  had  no  sooner  left  the  room  than  the  presidente 
turned  to  Cousin  Pons  with  that  insincere  friendliness  which  is 
about  as  grateful  to  a  sensitive  soul  as  a  mixture  of  milk  and 
vinegar  to  the  palate  of  an  epicure. 

"Dinner  is  ordered,  dear  cousin  ;  you  must  dine  without 
us  ;  my  husband  has  just  sent  word  from  the  Court  that  the 
question  of  the  marriage  has  been  reopened,  and  we  are  to 
dine  with  the  councilor.  We  need  not  stand  on  ceremony  at  all. 
Do  just  as  if  you  were  at  home.  I  have  no  secrets  from  you  ; 
I  am  perfectly  open  with  you,  as  you  see.  I  am  sure  you  would 
not  wish  to  break  off  the  little  darling's  marriage." 
*  Palace  Hall— High  Court. 


134  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

"I,  cousin?  On  the  contrary,  I  should  like  to  find  some 
one  for  her;  but  in  my  circle " 

''  Oh,  that  is  not  at  all  likely,"  said  the  presidente,  cutting 
him  short  insolently.  "Then  you  will  stay,  will  you  not? 
Cecile  will  keep  you  company  while  I  dress." 

"  Oh  !  I  can  dine  somewhere  else,  cousin." 

Cruelly  hurt  though  he  was  by  her  way  of  casting  up  his 
poverty  to  him,  the  prospect  of  being  left  alone  with  the  ser- 
vants was  even  more  alarming. 

"  But  why  should  you  ?  Dinner  is  ready  ;  you  may  just  as 
well  have  it ;  if  you  do  not,  the  servants  will  eat  it." 

At  that  atrocious  speech  Pons  started  up  as  if  he  had  re- 
ceived a  shock  from  a  galvanic  battery,  bowed  stiffly  to  the 
lady,  and  went  to  find  his  spencer.  Now,  it  so  happened  that 
the  door  of  Cecile's  bedroom,  beyond  the  little  drawing-room, 
stood  open,  and,  looking  into  the  mirror,  he  caught  sight  of 
the  girl  shaking  with  laughter  as  she  gesticulated  and  made 
signs  to  her  mother.  The  old  artist  understood  beyond  a 
doubt  that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  some  cowardly  hoax.  Pons 
went  slowly  down  the  stairs  \  he  could  not  keep  back  the  tears. 
He  understood  that  he  had  been  turned  out  of  the  house,  but 
why  and  wherefore  he  did  not  know. 

"I  am  growing  too  old,"  he  told  himself.  "  The  world 
has  a  horror  of  old  age  and  poverty — two  ugly  things.  After 
this  I  will  not  go  anywhere  unless  I  am  asked." 

Heroic  resolve  ! 

Downstairs  the  great  gate  was  shut,  as  it  usually  is  in  houses 
occupied  by  the  proprietor  ;  the  kitchen  stood  exactly  opposite 
the  perter's  lodge,  and  the  door  was  open.  Pons  was  obliged 
to  listen  while  Madeleine  told  the  servants  the  whole  story 
amid  the  laughter  of  the  servants.  She  had  not  expected  him 
to  leave  so  soon.  The  footman  loudly  applauded  a  joke  at 
the  expense  of  a  visitor  who  was  always  coming  to  the  house 
and  never  gave  you  more  than  three  francs  at  the  year's  end. 

''  Yes,"  put  in  the  cook ;  ''  but  if  lie  cuts  up  rough  and  does 


THE     RUE     DE     NORM  ANDJE. 


COUSIN  PONS.  135 

not  come  back,  there  will  be  three  francs  the  less  for  some  of 
us  on  New  Year's  day." 

"  Eh  !     How  is  he  to  know  ?  "  retorted  the  footman. 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Madeleine,  "a  little  sooner  or  a  little  later — 
what  difference  does  it  make  ?  The  people  at  the  other  houses 
where  he  dines  are  so  tired  of  him  that  they  are  going  to  turn 
him  out." 

"  The  gate  if  you  please." 

Madeleine  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when  they  heard 
the  old  musician's  call  to  the  porter.  It  sounded  like  a  cry  of 
pain.     There  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  kitchen. 

'•  He  heard  !  "  the  footman  said. 

*'  Well,  and  if  he  did,  so  much  the  worser,  or  rather  so 
much  the  better,"  retorted  Madeleine.  "  He  is  an  arrant 
skinflint." 

Poor  Pons  had  lost  none  of  the  talk  in  the  kitchen  ;  he 
heard  it  all,  even  to  the  last  word.  He  made  his  way  home 
along  the  boulevards,  in  the  same  state,  physical  and  mental, 
as  an  old  woman  after  a  desperate  struggle  with  burglars.  As 
he  went  he  talked  to  himself  in  quick  spasmodic  jerks  ;  his 
honor  had  been  wounded,  and  the  pain  of  it  drove  him  on 
as  a  gust  of  wind  whirls  away  a  straw.  He  found  himself  at 
last  in  the  Boulevard  du  Temple  ;  how  he  had  come  thither 
he  could  not  tell.  It  was  five  o'clock,  and,  strange  to  say, 
he  had  completely  lost  his  appetite. 

But  if  the  reader  is  to  understand  the  revolution  which 
Pons'  unexpected  return  at  that  hour  was  to  work  in  the  Rue 
de  Normandie,  the  promised  biography  of  Mme.  Cibot  must 
be  given  in  this  place. 

Any  one  passing  along  the  Rue  de  Normandie  might  be 
pardoned  for  thinking  that  he  was  in  some  small  provincial 
town.  Grass  runs  to  seed  in  the  street,  everybody  knows 
everybody  else,  and  the  sight  of  a  stranger  is  an  event.  The 
houses  date  back  to  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.,  when  there  was 


136  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

a  scheme  afoot  for  a  quarter  in  which  every  street  was  to  be 
named  after  a  French  province,  and  all  should  converge  in  a 
handsome  square  to  which  La  France  should  stand  godmother. 
The  Quartier  de  1' Europe  was  a  revival  of  the  same  idea; 
history  repeats  itself  everywhere  in  the  world,  and  even  in  the 
world  of  speculation. 

The  house  in  which  the  two  musicians  used  to  live  is  an  old 
mansion  with  a  courtyard  in  front  and  a  garden  at  the  back  ; 
but  the  front  part  of  the  house  which  gives  upon  the  street  is 
comparatively  modern,  built  during  the  eighteenth  century 
when  the  Marais  was  a  fashionable  quarter.  The  friends  lived 
at  the  back,  on  the  third  floor  of  the  old  part  of  the  house. 
The  whole  building  belonged  to  M.  Pillerault,  an  old  man  of 
eighty,  who  left  matters  very  much  in  the  hands  of  M.  and 
Mme.  Cibot,  his  janitors  for  the  past  twenty-six  years. 

Now,  as  a  janitor  cannot  live  by  his  lodge  alone,  the  afore- 
said Cibot  had  other  means  of  gaining  a  livelihood  ;  and  sup- 
plemented his  five  per  cent,  on  the  rental  and  his  faggot  from 
every  cartload  of  wood  by  his  own  earnings  as  a  tailor.  In 
time  Cibot  ceased  to  work  for  the  master  tailors ;  he  made  a 
connection  among  the  little  tradespeople  of  the  quarter,  and 
enjoyed  a  monopoly  of  the  repairs,  renovations,  and  fine- 
drawing  of  all  the  coats  and  trousers  in  three  adjacent  streets. 
The  lodge  was  spacious  and  wholesome,  and  boasted  a  second 
room  ;  wherefore  the  Cibot  couple  were  looked  upon  as  among 
the  luckiest  porters  in  the  arrondissement. 

Cibot,  small  and  stunted,  with  a  complexion  almost  olive- 
colored  by  reason  of  sitting  day  in  day  (^ut  Turk-fashion  on  a 
table  level  with  the  barred  windovv,  made  about  twelve  or 
fourteen  francs  a  week.  He  worked  still,  though  he  was  fifty- 
eight  years  old,  but  fifty-eight  is  the  porter's  golden  age;  he 
is  used  to  his  lodge,  he  and  his  room  fit  each  other  like  the 
shell  and  the  oyster,  and  "  he  is  known  in  tlie  neighborhood." 

Mme.  Cibot,  sometime  opener  of  oysters  at  the  Cadran 
Bleu,  after  all   the  adventures  which  come  unsought  to  the 


COUSIN  PONS.  137 

belle  of  an  oyster-bar,  left  her  post  for  love  of  Cibot  at  the 
age  of  twenty-eight.  The  beauty  of  a  woman  of  the  people  is 
short-lived,  especially  if  she  is  planted  espalier  fashion  at  a 
restaurant  door.  Her  features  are  hardened  by  puffs  of  hot 
air  from  the  kitchen  ;  the  color  of  the  heeltaps  of  customers' 
bottles,  finished  in  the  company  of  the  waiters,  gradually  fil- 
ters into  her  complexion — no  beauty  is  full  blown  as  soon  as 
the  beauty  of  an  oyster-opener.  Luckily  for  Mme.  Cibot, 
lawful  wedlock  and  a  portress'  life  were  offered  to  her  just  in 
time;  while  she  still  preserved  a  comeliness  of  a  masculine 
order  slandered  by  rivals  of  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  who 
called  her  "a  great  blowsy  thing,"  Mme.  Cibot  might  have 
sat  as  a  model  to  Rubens.  Those  flesh  tints  reminded  you  of 
the  appetizing  sheen  on  a  pat  of  Isigny  butter  ;  but  plump  as 
she  was,  no  woman  went  about  her  work  with  more  agility. 
Mme.  Cibot  had  attained  the  time  of  life  when  women  of  her 
stamp  are  obliged  to  shave — which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that 
she  had  reached  the  age  of  forty-eight.  A  porter's  wife  with 
a  mustache  is  one  of  the  best  possible  guarantees  of  respecta- 
bility and  security  that  a  landlord  can  have.  If  Delacroix 
could  have  seen  Mme.  Cibot  leaning  proudly  on  her  broom 
handle,  he  would  assuredly  have  painted  her  as  Bellona. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  circumstances  of  the  Cibots, 
man  and  wife  (in  the  style  of  an  indictment),  were  one  day  to 
affect  the  lives  of  the  two  friends  ;  wherefore  the  chronicler, 
as  in  duty  bound,  must  give  some  particulars  as  to  the  Cibots' 
lodge. 

The  house  brought  in  about  eight  thousand  francs,  for  there 
were  three  complete  sets  of  apartments — back  and  front,  on 
the  side  nearest  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  as  well  as  the  three 
floors  in  the  older  mansion  between  the  courtyard  and  the 
garden,  and  a  store  kept  by  a  rag,  bottle,  bone,  and  old  iron 
dealer  named  Renionencq,  which  fronted  on  the  street. 
During  the  past  few  months  this  Remonencq  had  begun  to 
deal  in  old  curiosities,  and  knew  the  value  of  Pons'  collection 


138  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

so  well  that  he  took  off  his  hat  whenever  the  musician  came 
in  or  went  out. 

A  sou  in  the  livre  on  eight  thousand  francs  therefore  brought 
in  about  four  hundred  francs  to  the  Cibots.  They  had  no 
rent  to  pay  and  no  expenses  for  firing;  Cibot's  earnings 
amounted  on  an  average*  to  seven  or  eight  hundred  francs, 
add  tips  at  the  New  Year,  and  the  pair  had  altogether  an 
income  of  sixteen  hundred  francs,  every  penny  of  which  they 
spent,  for  the  Cibots  lived  and  fared  better  than  working 
people  usually  do.  "  One  can  only  live  once,"  La  Cibot  used 
10  say.  She  was  born  during  the  Revolution,  you  see,  and 
had  never  learned  her  Catechism. 

The  husband  of  this  portress  with  the  unblenching  tawny 
eyes  was  an  object  of  envy  to  the  whole  fraternity,  for  La 
Cibot  had  not  forgotten  the  knowledge  of  cookery  picked  up  at 
the  Cadran  Bleu.  So  it  had  come  to  pass  that  the  Cibots  had 
passed  the  prime  of  life,  and  saw  themselves  on  the  threshold 
of  old  age  without  a  hundred  francs  put  by  for  the  future. 
Well  clad  and  well  fed,  they  enjoyed  among  the  neighbors,  it 
is  true,  the  respect  due  to  twenty-six  years  of  strict  honesty; 
for  if  they  had  nothing  of  their  own,  they  "hadn't  nothing 
belonging  to  nobody  else,"  according  to  La  Cibot,  who  was 
prodigal  of  negatives.  "  There  wasn't  never  such  a  love  of  a 
man,"  she  would  say  to  her  husband.  Do  you  ask  why? 
You  might  as  well  ask  the  reason  of  her  indifference  in  mat- 
ters of  religion. 

Both  of  tliem  were  proud  of  a  life  lived  in  open  day,  of  the 
esteem  in  wliich  they  were  held  for  six  or  seven  streets  round 
about,  and  of  the  autocratic  rule  permitted  to  them  by  the 
proprietor  ("  perprietor,"  they  called  him);  but  in  private 
they  groaned  because  they  had  no  money  lying  at  interest. 
Cibot  complained  of  pains  in  his  hands  and  legs,  and  his  wife 
would  lament  that  her  poor,  dear  Cibot  should  be  forced  to 
work  at  his  age;  and,  indeed,  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when 
a  porter  after  thirty  years  of  such  a  life  will  cry  shame  upon 


COUSIN  POXS.  139 

the  injustice  of  the  Government  and  clamor  for  the  ribbon  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor.  Every  time  that  the  gossip  of  the 
quarter  brougiit  news  of  such  and  such  a  servant-maid,  left  an 
annuity  of  three  or  four  hundred  francs  after  eight  or  ten 
years  of  service,  the  porters'  lodges  would  resound  with  com- 
plaints, which  may  give  some  idea  of  the  consuming  jealousies 
in  the  lowest  walks  of  life  in  Paris. 

"Oh,  indeed!  It  will  never  happen  to  the  like  of  us  to 
have  our  names  mentioned  in  a  will  !  We  have  no  luck,  but 
we  do  more  than  servants,  for  all  that.  We  fill  a  place  of 
trust ;  we  give  receipts,  we  are  on  the  lookout  for  squalls,  and 
yet  we  are  treated  like  dogs,  neither  more  nor  less,  and  that's 
the  truth!  " 

"Some  find  fortune  and  some  miss  fortune,"  said  Cibot, 
coming  in  with  a  coat  he  had  just  finished. 

"If  I  had  left  Cibot  here  in  this  lodge  and  taken  a  place  as 
cook,  we  should  have  had  our  thirty  thousand  francs  out  at 
interest,"  cried  Mme.  Cibot,  standing  chatting  with  a  neigh- 
bor, her  hands  on  her  prominent  hips.  "'  But  I  didn't  under- 
stand how  to  get  on  in  life  ;  housed  inside  of  a  snug  lodge 
and  firing  found  and  want  for  nothing,  but  that  is  all." 

In  1S36  when  the  friends  took  up  their  abode  on  the  third 
fioor,  they  brought  about  a  sort  of  revolution  in  the  Cibot 
household.  It  befell  on  this  wise.  Schmucke,  like  his  friend 
Pons,  usually  arranged  that  the  porter  or  the  porter's  wife 
should  undertake  the  cares  of  housekeeping ;  and  being  both 
of  one  mind  on  this  point  when  they  came  to  live  in  the  Rue 
de  Normandie,  Mme.  Cibot  became  their  housekeeper  at  the 
rate  of  twenty-five  francs  per  month — twelve  francs  fifty  cen- 
times for  each  of  them.  Before  the  year  was  out,  the  emeritus 
portress  reigned  in  the  establishment  of  the  two  old  bachelors, 
as  she  reigned  everywhere  in  the  house  belonging  to  M. 
Pillerault,  great-uncle  of  Mme,  la  Comtesse  Popinot.  Their 
business  was  her  business  ;  she  called  them  "  my  gentlemen." 
And  at  last,  finding  the  pair  of  nutcrackers  mild  as  lambs. 


140  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

easy  to  live  with,  and  by  no  means  suspicious — perfect  chil- 
dren, in  fact — her  heart,  the  heart  of  a  woman  of  the  people, 
prompted  her  to  protect,  adore,  and  serve  them  with  such 
thorough  devotion,  that  she  read  them  a  lecture  now  and 
again,  and  saved  them  from  the  impositions  which  swell  the 
cost  of  living  in  Paris.  For  twenty-five  francs  a  month,  the 
two  old  bachelors  inadvertently  acquired  a  mother. 

As  they  became  aware  of  Mme.  Cibot's  full  value,  they 
gave  her  outspoken  praises,  and  thanks,  and  little  presents, 
which  strengthened  the  bonds  of  the  domestic  alliance.  Mme. 
Cibot  a  thousand  times  preferred  appreciation  to  money  pay- 
ments; it  is  a  well-kno\vn  fact  that  the  sense  that  one  is  ap- 
preciated makes  up  for  a  deficiency  in  wages.  And  Cibot  did 
all  that  he  could  for  his  wife's  two  gentlemen,  and  ran  errands 
and  did  repairs  at  half-price  for  them. 

The  second  year  brought  a  new  element  into  the  friendship 
between  the  lodge  and  the  third  floor,  and  Schmucke  con- 
cluded a  bargain  which  satisfied  his  indolence  and  desire  for 
a  life  without  cares.  For  thirty  sous  per  day,  or  forty-five 
francs  per  month,  Mme.  Cibot  undertook  to  provide  Schmucke 
with  breakfast  and  dinner;  and  Pons,  finding  his  friend's 
breakfast  very  much  to  his  mind,  concluded  a  separate  treaty 
for  that  meal  onlv  at  the  rate  of  eighteen  francs.  This  arrange- 
ment,  which  added  nearly  ninety  francs  every  month  to  the 
takings  of  the  porter  and  his  wife,  made  two  inviolable  beings 
of  the  lodgers  ;  they  became  angels,  cherubs,  divinities.  It  is 
very  doubtful  whether  the  King  of  the  French,  who  is  sup- 
posed to  understand  economy,  is  as  well  served  as  the  pair  of 
nutcrackers  used  to  be  in  those  days. 

For  them  the  milk  issued  pure  from  the  can  ;  they  enjoyed 
a  free  perusal  of  all  the  morning  papers  taken  by  other  lodgers, 
later  risers,  who  were  told,  if  need  be,  that  the  newspaper  had 
not  come  yet.  Mme.  Cibot,  moreover,  kept  their  clothes, 
their  rooms,  and  the  landing  as  clean  as  a  Flemish  interior. 
As  for  Schmucke,  he  enjoyed  unhoped-for  happiness ;  Mme. 


COUSIN  PONS.  Ill 

Cibot  had  made  life  easy  for  him ;  lie  paid  her  about  six 
francs  a  month,  and  she  took  charge  of  his  linen,  washing, 
and  mending.  Altogether  his  expenses  amounted  to  sixty-six 
francs  per  month  (for  he  spent  fifteen  francs  on  tobacco),  and 
sixty-six  francs  multiplied  by  twelve  produces  the  sum-total  of 
seven  hundred  and  ninety-two  francs.  Add  two  hundred  and 
twenty  francs  for  rent,  rates,  and  taxes,  and  you  have  a  thou- 
sand and  twelve  francs.  Cibot  was  Schmucke's  tailor ;  his 
clothes  cost  him  on  an  average  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs, 
which  further  swells  the  total  to  the  sum  of  twelve  hundred. 
On  twelve  hundred  francs  per  annum  this  profound  philosopher 
lived.  How  many  people  in  Europe,  whose  one  thought  it  is 
to  come  to  Paris  and  live  there,  will  be  agreeably  surprised  to 
learn  that  you  may  exist  in  comfort  upon  an  income  of  twelve 
hundred  francs  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie  in  the  Marais,  under 
the  wing  of  a  Mme.  Cibot. 

Mme.  Cibot,  to  resume  the  story,  was  amazed  beyond  ex- 
pression to  see  Pons,  good  man,  return  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  before ;  and  not 
only  so,  but  "her  gentleman"  had  given  her  no  greeting — 
had  not  so  much  as  seen  her  ! 

"Well,  well,  Cibot,"  said  she  to  her  spouse,  "Monsieur 
Pons  has  come  in  for  a  million,  or  gone  out  of  his  mind  !  " 

"That  is  how  it  looks  to  me,"  said  Cibot,  dropping  the 
coat-sleeve  in  which  he  was  making  a  "dart,"  in  tailor's 
language. 

The  savory  odor  of  a  stew  pervaded  the  whole  courtyard,  as 
Pons  returned  mechanically  home.  Mme.  Cibot  was  dishing 
up  Schmucke's  dinner,  which  consisted  of  scraps  of  boiled 
beef  from  a  little  cook-shop  not  above  doing  a  little  trade  of 
this  kind.  These  morsels  were  fricasseed  in  brown  butter, 
with  thin  slices  of  onion,  until  the  meat  and  vesetables  had 
absorbed  the  gravy,  and  this  true  porter's  dish  was  browned 
to  the  right  degree.  With  that  fricassee,  prepared  with  loving 
care  for  Cibot  and  Schmucke,  and  accompanied  by  a  bottle  of 


142  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

beer  and  a  piece  of  cheese,  the  old  German  music-master  was 
quite  content.  Not  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  be  sure, 
could  dine  better  than  Schraucke.  A  dish  of  boiled  beef 
fricasseed  with  onions,  scraps  of  saute  chicken,  or  beef  and 
parsley,  or  venison,  or  fish  served  with  a  sauce  of  La  Cibot's 
own  invention  (a  sauce  with  which  a  mother  might  unsus- 
pectingly eat  her  child) — such  was  Schmucke's  ordinary, 
varying  with  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  remnants  of  food 
supplied  by  boulevard  restaurants  to  the  cook-shop  in  the  Rue 
Boucherat.  Schmucke  took  everything  that  "  goot  Montame 
Zipod  "  gave  him,  and  was  content,  and  so  from  day  to  day 
"goot  Montame  Zipod"  cut  down  the  cost  of  his  dinner, 
until  it  could  be  served  for  twenty  sous. 

"  It  won't  be  long  afore  I  find  out  what  is  the  matter  with 
him,  poor  dear,"  said  Mme.  Cibot  to  her  husband,  "for  here 
is  Monsieur  Schmucke's  dinner  all  ready  for  him." 

As  she  spoke,  she  covered  the  deep  earthenware  dish  with  a 
plate  ;  and,  notwithstanding  her  age,  she  climbed  the  stair  and 
reached  the  door  before  Schmucke  opened  it  to  Pons. 

"  Vat  is  de  matter  mit  you,  mein  goot  friend?"  asked  the 
German,  scared  by  the  expression  on  Pons'  face. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it ;  but  I  have  come  home  to  have 
dinner  with  you " 

"Tinner!  tinner!"  cried  Schmucke  in  ecstasy;  "but  it 
is  imbossible  !  "  the  old  German  added,  as  he  thought  of  his 
friend's  gastronomical  tastes  ;  and  at  that  very  moment  he 
caught  sight  of  Mme.  Cibot  listening  to  the  conversation,  as 
she  had  a  right  to  do  as  his  lawful  housewife.  Struck  with 
one  of  those  happy  inspirations  which  only  enlighten  a  friend's 
heart,  he  marched  up  to  the  portress  and  drew  her  out  to  the 
stairhead. 

"Montame  Zipod,"  he  said,  "  der  goot  Bons  is  fond  of 
goot  dings;  shoost  go  rount  to  der  Catran  Pleu  und  order  a 
dainty  liddle  tinner,  mit  anjovies  und  maggaroni.  Ein  tinner 
for  Lugullus,  in  vact." 


COUSIN  PONS.  14:i 

"  What  is  that?  "  inquired  La  Cibot. 

"Oh!  ah!"  returned  Schmucke,  "it  is  veal  a  la  pour- 
cheoise''  (Jwxcrgeoise,  he  meant),  "a  nice  fisch,  ein  pottle  oflF 
Porteaux,  und  nice  dings,  der  fery  best  dey  haf,  like  groquettes 
of  rice  und  shmoked  paeon  ! 

"  Bay  for  it,  und  say  nodings ;  I  vill  gif  you  back  de  monny 
to-morrow  morning." 

Back  went  Schmucke,  radiant  and  rubbing  his  hands ;  but 
his  expression  slowly  clianged  to  a  look  of  bewildered  aston- 
ishment as  he  heard  Pons'  story  of  the  troubles  that  had  but 
just  now  overwhelmed  him  in  a  moment.  He  tried  to  com- 
fort Pons  by  giving  him  a  sketch  of  the  world  from  his  own 
point  of  view.  Paris,  in  his  opinion,  was  a  perpetual  hurly- 
burly,  the  men  and  women  in  it  were  whirled  away  by  a 
tempestuous  waltz;  it  was  no  use  expecting  anything  of  the 
world,  wliich  only  looked  at  the  outside  of  things,  "und  not 
at  der  inderior. "  For  the  hundredth  time  he  related  how 
that  the  only  three  pupils  for  whom  he  had  really  cared,  for 
whom  he  was  ready  to  die,  the  three  who  had  been  fond  of 
him,  and  even  allowed  him  a  little  pension  of  nine  hundred 
francs,  each  contributing  three  hundred  to  the  amount — his 
favorite  pupils  had  quite  forgotten  to  come  to  see  him  ;  and  so 
swift  was  the  current  of  Parisian  life  which  swept  them  away, 
that  if  he  called  at  their  houses  he  had  not  succeeded  in  seeing 
them  once  in  three  years — (it  is  a  fact,  however,  that  Schmucke 
had  always  thought  fit  to  call  on  these  ;2;reat  ladies  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning!) — still,  his  pension  was  paid  quar- 
terly through  the  medium  of  attorneys. 

"Und  yet,  dey  are  hearts  of  gold,"  he  concluded.  "  Dey 
are  my  liddle  Saint  Cecilias,  sharming  viramen,  Alontame  de 
Bordentuere,  Montame  te  Fantanesse,  und  Montame  tu  Dilet. 
Gif  I   see   dem  at   all,  it  is  at  die  Jambs  Elusees,  und   dey 

do  not  see  me yet  dey  are  ver'  fond  of  me,  und  I  might 

go  to  dine  mit  dem,  und  dey  vould  be  ver'  bleased  to 
see  me ;  und  I  might  go  to  deir  country-houses,  but  I  would 


144  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

much  rader  be  mit  mein  friend   Bons,  because  I  kan  see  him 
venefer  I  like,  und  efery  tay." 

Pons  took  Schmucke's  hand  and  grasped  it  between  his  own. 
All  that  was  passing  in  his  inmost  soul  was  communicated  in 
that  tight  pressure.  And  so  for  a  while  the  friends  sat  like 
two  lovers,  meeting  at  last  after  a  long  absence. 

"Tine  here,  efery  tay!"  broke  out  Schmucke,  inwardly 
blessing  Mme.  de  Marville  for  her  hardness  of  heart.  "  Look 
here  !  Ve  shall  go  a  prick-a-pracking  togeders,  und  der  teufel 
shall  nefer  show  his  tail  here." 

*'Ve  shall  go  prick-a-pracking  togeders!" — for  the  full 
comprehension  of  those  truly  heroic  words,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  Schmucke's  ignorance  of  bric-a-brac  was  something 
of  the  densest.  It  required  all  the  strength  of  his  friendship 
to  keep  him  from  doing  heedless  damage  in  the  sitting-room 
and  study  which  did  duty  as  a  museum  for  Pons.  Schmucke, 
wholly  absorbed  in  music,  a  composer  for  love  of  his  art,  took 
about  as  much  interest  in  his  friend's  little  trifles  as  a  fish  might 
take  in  a  flower-show  at  the  Luxembourg,  supposing  that  it 
had  received  a  ticket  of  admission.  A  certain  awe  which  he 
certainly  felt  for  the  marvels  was  simply  a  reflection  of  the 
respect  which  Pons  showed  his  treasures  when  he  dusted  them. 
To  Pons'  exclamations  of  admiration,  he  was  wont  to  reply 
with  a  "Yes,  it  is  ver'  bretty,"  as  a  mother  answers  baby- 
gestures  with  meaningless  baby-talk.  Seven  times  since  the 
friends  had  lived  together.  Pons  had  exchanged  a  good  clock 
for  a  better  one,  till  at  last  lie  possessed  a  timepiece  in  Boule's 
first  and  best  manner,  for  Boule  had  two  manners,  as  Raphael 
had  three.  In  the  first  he  combined  ebony  and  copper ;  in 
the  second — contrary  to  his  convictions — ne  sacrificed  to  tor- 
toise-shell, working  miracles  to  outstrip  his  rivals,  the  inventors 
of  tortoise-shell  inlaid  work.  In  spite  of  Pons'  learned  disser- 
tations, Schmucke  never  could  see  the  slightest  difference 
between  the  magnificent  clock  in  Boule's  first  manner  and  its 
six  predecessors;  but,  for  Pons'  sake,  Schmucke  was  even  more 


COUSIN  PONS.  145 

careful  among  the  "chimcracks"  than  Pons  himself.  So  it 
should  not  be  surprising  that  Schmucke's  sublime  words  com- 
forted Pons  in  his  despair;  for  "  Ve  shall  go  prick-a-pracking 
togeders  "  meant,  being  interpreted,  "I  will  put  money  into 
bric-a-brac,  if  you  will  only  dine  here." 

*'  Dinner  is  ready,"  Mme.  Cibot  announced,  with  astonish- 
ing  self-possession. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  Pons'  surprise  when  he  saw 
and  relished  the  dinner  due  to  Schmucke's  friendship.  Sen- 
sations of  this  kind,  that  come  so  rarely  in  a  lifetime,  are 
never  the  outcome  of  the  constant,  close  relationship  by  which 
friend  daily  says  to  friend,  "You  are  a  second  self  to  me;  " 
for  this,  too,  becomes  a  matter  of  use  and  wont.  It  is  only 
by  contact  with  the  barbarism  of  the  world  without  that  the 
happiness  of  that  intimate  life  is  revealed  to  us  as  a  sudden 
glad  surprise.  It  is  the  outer  world  which  renews  the  bond 
between  friend  and  friend,  lover  and  lover,  all  their  lives  long, 
wherever  two  great  souls  are  knit  together  by  friendship  or  by 
love. 

Pons  brushed  away  two  big  tears,  Schmucke  himself  wiped 
his  eyes ;  and,  though  nothing  was  said,  the  two  were  closer 
friends  than  before.  Little  friendly  nods  and  glances  ex- 
changed across  the  table  were  like  balm  to  Pons,  soothing  the 
pain  caused  by  the  sand  dropped  in  his  heart  by  the  presi- 
dent's wife.  As  for  Schmucke,  he  rubbed  his  hands  until 
they  were  sore ;  for  a  new  idea  had  occurred  to  him,  one  of 
those  great  discoveries  which  cause  a  German  no  surprise, 
unless  they  sprout  up  suddenly  in  a  Teuton  brain  frost-bound 
by  the  awe  and  reverence  due  to  sovereign  princes. 

"  Mine  goot  Bons?  "  began  Schmucke. 

"  I  can  guess  what  you  mean  ;  you  would  like  us  both  to 
dine  together  here,  every  day " 

"Gif  only  I  vas  rich  enof  to  lif  like  dis  efery  tay " 


began  the  good  German   in  a  melancholy  voice.     But  here 
Mme.  Cibot  appeared  upon  the  scene.     Pons  had  given  her 
10 


146  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

an  order  for  the  theatre  from  time  to  time,  and  stood  in  con- 
sequence almost  as  high  in  her  esteem  and  affection  as  her 
boarder  Schmucke. 

"Lord  love  you,"  said  she,  "for  three  francs  and  wine 
extra  I  can  give  you  both  such  a  dinner  every  day  that  you 
will  be  ready  to  lick  the  plates  as  clean  as  if  they  were  washed." 

"It  is  a  fact,"  Schmucke  remarked,  "  dat  die  tinners  dat 
Montame  Zipod  cooks  for  me  are  better  as  de  messes  dey  eat 
at  der  royal  dable  !  "  In  his  eagerness,  Schmucke,  usually  so 
full  of  respect  for  the  powers  that  be,  so  far  forgot  himself  as 
to  imitate  the  irreverent  newspapers  which  scoffed  at  the 
"  fixed-price  "  dinners  of  royalty. 

"Really?"  said  Pons.     "  Very  well,  I  will  try  to-morrow." 

And  at  that  promise  Schmucke  sprang  from  one  end  of  the 
table  to  the  other,  sweeping  off  tablecloth,  bottles,  and  dishes 
as  he  went  and  hugged  Pons  to  his  heart.  So  might  gas  rush 
to  combine  with  gas. 

"  Vat  happiness  !  "  cried  he. 

Mme.  Cibot  was  quite  touched.  "Monsieur  is  going  to 
dine  here  every  day  !  "  she  cried  proudly. 

That  excellent  woman  departed  downstairs  again  in  igno- 
rance of  the  event  which  had  brought  about  this  result, 
entered  her  room  like  Josepha  in  "  William  Tell,"  set  down 
the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  table  with  a  bang,  and  called 
aloud  to  her  husband — 

"Cibot !  run  to  the  Cafe  Turc  for  two  small  cups  of  coffee, 
and  tell  the  man  at  the  stove  that  it  is  for  me." 

Then  she  sat  down  and  rested  her  hands  on  her  massive 
knees,  and  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  opposite  wall. 

"I  will  go  to-night  and  see  what  Ma'am  Fontaine  says," 
she  thought.  (Madame  Fontaine  told  fortunes  on  the  cards  for 
all  the  servants  in  the  quarter  of  the  Marais.)  "Since  these 
two  gentlemen  came  here,  we  have  put  two  thousand  francs 
in  the  savings  bank.  Two  thousand  francs  in  eight  years ! 
What  luck !     Would  it  be  better  to  make  no  profit  out  of 


COUSIN  PONS.  147 

Monsieur  Pons'  dinner  and  keep  him  here  at  home?     Ma'am 
Fontaine's  hen  will  tell  me  that." 

Three  years  ago  Mme.  Cibot  had  begun  to  cherish  a  hope 
that  her  name  might  be  mentioned  in  "her  gentlemen's" 
wills;  she  had  redoubled  her  zeal  since  that  covetous  thought 
tardily  sprouted  up  in  the  midst  of  that  so  honest  mustache. 
Pons  hitherto  had  dined  abroad,  eluding  her  desire  to  have 
both  of  "her  gentlemen"  entirely  under  her  management; 
his  "troubadour"  collector's  life  had  scared  away  certain 
vague  ideas  which  hovered  in  La  Cibot's  brain  ;  but  now  her 
shadowy  projects  assumed  the  formidable  shape  of  a  definite 
plan,  dating  from  that  memorable  dinner.  Fifteen  minutes 
later  she  reappeared  in  the  dining-room  with  two  cups  of 
excellent  coffee,  flanked  by  a  couple  of  tiny  glasses  of  kirsch- 
wasser.'^ 

"Long  lif  Montame  Zipod  !  "  cried  Schmucke ;  "she  haf 
guessed  right  !  " 

The  diner-out  bemoaned  himself  a  little,  while  Schmucke 
met  his  lamentations  with  coaxing  fondness,  like  a  home 
pigeon  welcoming  back  a  wandering  bird.  Then  the  pair  set 
out  for  the  theatre. 

Schmucke  could  not  leave  his  friend  in  the  condition  to 
which  he  had  been  brought  by  the  Camusots — mistresses  and 
servants.  He  knew  Pons  so  well ;  he  feared  lest  some  cruel, 
sad  thought  should  seize  on  him  at  his  conductor's  desk,  and 
undo  all  the  good  done  by  his  welcome  home  to  the  nest. 

And  Schmucke  brought  his  friend  back  on  his  arm  through 
the  streets  at  midnight.  A  lover  could  not  be  more  careful  of 
his  lady.  He  pointed  out  the  edges  of  the  curbstones,  he  was 
on  the  lookout  whenever  they  stepped  on  or  off  the  pavement, 
ready  with  a  warning  if  there  was  a  gutter  to  cross.  Schmucke 
could  have  wished  that  the  streets  were  paved  with  cotton- 
down  ;  he  would  have  had  a  blue  sky  overhead,  and  Pons 
should  hear  the  music  which  all  the  angels  in  heaven  were 
*  A  Swiss  liqueur  distilled  from  the  black  cherry. 


148  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

making  for  him.  He  had  won  the  lost  province  in  his  friend's 
heart ! 

For  nearly  three  months  Pons  and  Schmucke  dined  together 
every  day.  Pons  was  obliged  to  retrench  at  once ;  for  dinner 
at  forty-five  francs  a  month  and  wine  at  thirty-five  meant  pre- 
cisely eighty  francs  less  to  spend  on  bric-a-brac.  And  very 
soon,  in  spite  of  all  that  Schmucke  could  do,  in  spite  of  his 
little  German  jokes,  Pons  fell  to  regretting  the  delicate  dishes, 
the  liqueurs,  the  good  coffee,  the  table-talk,  the  insincere  po- 
liteness, the  guests,  and  the  gossip,  and  the  houses  where  he 
used  to  dine.  On  the  wrong  side  of  sixty  a  man  cannot  break 
himself  of  a  habit  of  thirty-six  years'  growth.  Wine  at  a  hun- 
dred and  thirty  francs  per  hogshead  is  scarcely  a  generous 
liquid  in  a  gourmand's  glass  ;  every  time  that  Pons  raised  it 
to  his  lips  he  thought,  with  infinite  poignant  regret,  of  the 
exquisite  wines  in  his  entertainers'  cellars. 

In  short,  at  the  end  of  three  months,  the  cruel  pangs  which 
had  gone  near  to  break  Pons'  sensitive  heart  had  died  away ; 
he  forgot  everything  but  the  charms  of  society  ;  and  languished 
for  them  like  some  elderly  slave  of  a  petticoat  compelled  to 
leave  the  mistress  who  too  repeatedly  deceives  him.  In  vain 
he  tried  to  hide  his  profound  and  consuming  melancholy;  it 
was  too  plain  that  lie  was  suffering  from  one  of  the  mysterious 
complaints  which  the  mind  brings  upon  the  body. 

A  single  sympton  will  throw  light  upon  this  case  of  nostalgia 
(as  it  were)  produced  by  breaking  away  from  an  old  habit ;  in 
itself  it  is  trifling,  one  of  the  myriad  nothings  which  are  as 
rings  in  a  coat  of  chain-mail  enveloping  the  soul  in  a  network 
of  iron.  One  of  the  keenest  pleasures  of  Pons'  old  life,  one  of  the 
joys  of  the  dinner-table  parasite  at  all  times,  was  the  "surprise," 
the  thrill  produced  by  the  extra  dainty  dish  added  triumphantly 
to  the  bill  of  fare  by  the  mistress  of  a  bourgeois  house,  to  give 
a  festal  air  to  tlie  dinner.  Pons'  stomach  hankered  after  that 
gastronomical  satisfaction.  Mme.  Cibot,  in  the  pride  of  her 
heart,  enumerated  every  dish  beforehand ;   a  salt  and  savor 


COUSIN  PONS.  149 

once  periodically  recurrent,  had  vanished  utterly  from  daily 
life.  Dinner  proceeded  without  le  plat  couveri,  as  our  grand- 
sires  called  it.  This  lay  beyond  the  bounds  of  Schmucke's 
powers  of  comprehension. 

Pons  had  too  much  delicacy  to  grumble ;  but  if  the  case  of 
unappreciated  genius  is  hard,  it  goes  harder  still  with  the 
stomach  whose  claims  are  ignored.  Slighted  affection,  a  sub- 
ject of  which  too  much  has  been  made,  is  founded  upon  an 
illusory  longing ;  for,  if  the  creature  fails,  love  can  turn  to  the 
Creator  wlio  has  treasures  to  bestow.  But  the  stomach  ! 
Nothing  can  be  compared  to  its  sufferings ;  for,  in  the  first 
place,  one  must  live. 

Pons  thought  wistfully  of  certain  creams — surely  the  poetry 
of  cookery  ! — of  certain  white  sauces,  masterpieces  of  the  art ; 
of  truffled  chickens,  fit  to  melt  your  heart ;  and  above  these, 
and  more  than  all  these,  of  the  famous  Rhine  carp,  only  known 
at  Paris,  served  with  what  condiments  !  There  were  days 
when  Pons,  thinking  upon  Count  Popinot's  cook,  would  sigh 
aloud,  "Ah,  Sophie  !  "  Any  passer-by  hearing  the  exclama- 
tion might  have  thought  that  the  old  man  referred  to  a  lost 
mistress  ;  but  his  fancy  dwelt  upon  something  rarer,  on  a  fat 
Rhine  carp  with  a  sauce,  thin  in  the  sauce-boat,  creamy  upon 
the  palate,  a  sauce  that  deserved  tlie  Montyon  prize  !  The 
conductor  of  the  orchestra,  living  on  memories  of  past  din- 
ners, grew  visibly  leaner;  he  was  pining  away,  a  victim  to 
gastric  nostalgia. 

By  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  month  (toward  the  end  of 
January,  1845)  Pons'  condition  attracted  attention  at  the 
theatre.  The  flute,  a  young  man  named  Wilhelm,  like  almost 
all  Germans;  and  Schwab,  to  distinguish  him  from  all  other 
Wilhelms,  if  not  from  all  other  Schwabs,  judged  it  expedient 
to  open  Schmucke's  eyes  to  his  friend's  state  of  health.  It 
was  a  first  performance  of  a  piece  in  which  Schmucke's  instru- 
ments were  all  required. 

"The  old  gentleman  is  failing,"  said  the  flute;  "  there  is 


150  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

something  wrong  somewhere ;  his  eyes  are  heavy,  and  he 
doesn't  beat  time  as  he  used  to  do,"  added  Wilhelm  Schwab, 
indicating  Pons  as  he  gloomily  took  his  place. 

"  Dat  is  alvays  de  vay,  gif  a  man  is  sixty  years  old,"  an- 
swered Schmucke. 

The  Highland  widow,  in  **The  Chronicles  of  the  Canon- 
gate,"  sent  her  son  to  his  death  to  have  him  beside  her  for 
twenty-four  hours ;  and  Schmucke  could  have  sacrificed 
Pons  for  the  sake  of  seeing  his  face  every  day  across  the  din- 
ner-table. 

"  Everybody  in  the  theatre  is  anxious  about  him,"  continued 
the  flute;  "and,  as  t\\Q  premiere  danseuse.  Mile.  Brisetout, 
says,   '  he   makes  hardly  any  noise  now  when  he  blows  his 


nose.'" 


And,  indeed,  a  peal  like  the  blast  of  a  horn  used  to  resound 
through  the  old  musician's  bandana  handkerchief  whenever 
he  raised  it  to  that  lengthy  and  cavernous  feature.  The  presi- 
dent's wife  had  more  frequently  found  fault  with  him  on  that 
score  than  on  any  other. 

"I  vould  gif  a  goot  teal  to  amuse  him,"  said  Schmucke, 
"he  gets  so  dull." 

"  Monsieur  Pons  always  seems  so  much  above  the  like  of  us 
poor  devils,  that,  upon  my  word,  I  didnt't  dare  to  ask  him  to 
my  wedding,"  said  Wilhelm  Schwab.  "I  am  going  to  be 
married ' ' 

"  How?  "  demanded  Schmucke. 

"Oh!  quite  properly,"  returned  Wilhelm  Schwab,  taking 
Schmucke's  quaint  inquiry  for  a  gibe,  of  which  that  perfect 
Christian  was  quite  incapable. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,  take  your  places !  "  called  Pons,  look- 
ing round  at  his  little  army,  as  the  stage-manager's  bell  rang 
for  the  overture. 

The  i)iece  was  a  dramatized  fairy  tale,  a  pantomime  called 
"The  Devil's  Betrothed,"  which  ran  for  two  hundred  nights. 
In  the  interval,    after   the   fust   act,   Wilhelm   Schwab   and 


COUSIN  PONS.  151 

Schmucke  were  left  alone  in  the  orchestra,  with  a  house  at  a 
temperature  of  thirty-two  degrees  Reaumur. 

"Tell  me  your  hishdory,"  said  Schmucke. 

"Look  there!  Do  you  see  that  y*  ung  man  in  the  box 
yonder  ?     Do  you  recognize  him  ?  " 

"Nefer  a  pit " 

"  Ah  !  That  is  because  he  is  wearing  yellow  gloves  and 
shines  with  all  the  radiance  of  riches,  but  that  is  my  friend 
Fritz  Brunner  out  of  Frankfort-on-the-Main." 

"  Dat  used  to  komm  to  see  du  blay  und  sit  peside  you  in 
der  orghestra  ?  " 

"The  same.  You  would  not  believe  he  could  look  so 
different,  would  you  ?  " 

The  hero  of  the  promised  story  was  a  German  of  that  par- 
ticular type  in  which  the  sombre  irony  of  Goethe's  Mephis- 
topheles  is  blended  with  a  homely  cheerfulness  found  in  the 
romances  of  Auguste  La  Fontaine  of  pacific  memory;  but  the 
predominating  element  in  the  compound  of  artlessness  and 
guile,  of  storekeeper's  shrewdness,  and  the  studied  careless- 
ness of  a  member  of  the  Jockey  Club,  was  that  form  of  disgust 
which  set  a  pistol  in  the  hands  of  a  young  Werther,  bored  to 
death  less  by  Charlotte  than  by  German  princes.  It  was  a 
thoroughly  German  face,  full  of  cunning,  full  of  simplicity, 
stupidity,  and  courage ;  the  knowledge  which  brings  weari- 
ness, the  worldly  wisdom  which  the  veriest  child's  trick  leaves 
at  fault,  the  abuse  of  beer  and  tobacco — all  th'.se  were  there 
to  be  seen  in  it,  and,  to  heighten  the  contrast  of  opposed  quali- 
ties, there  was  a  wild  diabolical  gleam  in  the  fine  blue  eyes 
with  the  jaded  expression. 

Dressed  with  all  the  elegance  of  a  city  man,  Fritz  Brunner 
sat  in  full  view  of  the  house,  displaying  a  bald  crown  of  the 
tint  beloved  by  Titian,  and  a  few  stray,  fiery  red  hairs  on 
either  side  of  it ;  a  remnant  spared  by  debauchery  and  want, 
that  the  prodigal  might  have  a  right  to  spend  money  with  the 
hairdresser  when  he  should  come  into  his  fortune.     A  face, 


152  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

once  fair  and  fresh  as  the  traditional  portrait  of  Jesus  Christ, 
had  grown  harder  since  the  advent  of  a  red  mustache ;  a 
tawny  beard  lent  it  an  almost  sinister  look.  The  bright  blue 
eyes  had  lost  something  of  their  clearness  in  the  struggle  with 
distress.  The  countless  courses  by  which  a  man  sells  himself 
and  his  honor  in  Paris  had  left  their  traces  upon  his  eyelids 
and  carved  lines  about  the  eyes,  into  which  a  mother  once 
looked  with  a  mother's  rapture  to  find  a  copy  of  her  own 
fashioned  by  God's  hand. 

This  precocious  philosopher,  this  weazened  youth,  was  the 
work  of  a  stepmother. 

Herewith  begins  the  curious  history  of  a  prodigal  son  of 
Frankfort-on-the-Main — the  most  extraordinary  and  astound- 
ing portent  ever  beheld  by  that  well-conducted,  if  central,  city. 

Gideon  Brunner,  father  of  the  aforesaid  Fritz,  was  one  of 
the  famous  innkeepers  of  Frankfort,  a  tribe  who  make  law- 
authorized  incisions  in  travelers'  purses  with  the  connivance 
of  the  local  bankers.  An  innkeeper  and  an  honest  Calvinist 
to  boot,  he  had  married  a  converted  Jewess  and  laid  the  foun- 
dations of  his  prosperity  with  the  money  she  brought  him. 

When  the  Jewess  died,  leaving  a  son,  Fritz,  twelve  years  of 
age,  under  the  joint  guardianship  of  his  father  and  maternal 
uncle,  a  furrier  at  Leipsic,  head  of  the  firm  of  Virlaz  &  Com- 
pany, Brunner  senior  was  compelled  by  his  brother-in-law  (who 
was  by  no  means  as  soft  as  his  peltry)  to  invest  little  Fritz's 
money,  a  goodly  quantity  of  current  coin  of  the  realm,  with  the 
house  of  Al-Sartchild.  Not  a  penny  of  it  was  he  allowed  to 
touch.  So,  by  way  of  revenge  for  the  Israelite's  pertinacity, 
Brunner  senior  married  again.  It  was  impossible,  he  said,  to 
keep  his  huge  hotel  single-handed ;  it  needed  a  woman's  eye 
and  hand.  Gideon  Brunner's  second  wife  was  an  innkeeper's 
daughter,  a  very  pearl,  as  he  thought ;  but  he  had  had  no  ex- 
perience of  only  daughters  spoiled  by  father  and  mother. 

The  second  Mme.  Brunner  behaved  as  German  girls  may 
be  expected  to  behave  when  they  are  frivolous  and  wayward. 


COUsrV  PONS.  153 

She  squandered  her  fortune,  she  avenged  the  first  Mme. 
Brunner  by  making  her  husband  as  miserable  a  man  as  you 
could  find  in  the  compass  of  the  free  city  of  Frankfort-on-the- 
Main,  where  the  millionaires,  it  is  said,  are  about  to  pass  a 
law  compelling  womenkind  to  cherish  and  obey  them  alone. 
She  was  partial  to  all  the  varieties  of  vinegar  commonly  called 
Rhine  wine  in  Germany;  she  was  fond  of  articles  Paris,  of 
horses  and  dress ;  indeed,  the  one  expensive  taste  which  she 
had  not  was  a  liking  for  women.  She  took  a  dislike  to  little 
Fritz,  and  would  perhaps  have  driven  him  mad  if  that  young 
offspring  of  Calvinism  and  Judaism  had  not  had  Frankfort  for 
his  cradle  and  the  firm  of  Virlaz  at  Leipsic  for  his  guardian. 
Uncle  Virlaz,  however,  deep  in  his  furs,  confined  his  guardian- 
ship to  the  safe-keeping  of  Fritz's  silver  marks,  and  left  the 
boy  to  the  tender  mercies  of  this  stepmother. 

That  hyena  in  woman's  form  was  the  more  exasperated 
against  the  pretty  child,  the  lovely  Jewess'  son,  because  she 
herself  could  have  no  children  in  spite  of  efforts  worthy  of  a 
locomotive  engine.  A  diabolical  impulse  prompted  her  to 
plunge  her  young  stepson,  at  twenty-one  years  of  age,  into 
dissipations  contrary  to  all  German  habits.  The  wicked 
German  hoped  that  English  horses,  Rhine  vinegar,  and 
Goethe's  Marguerites  would  ruin  the  Jewess'  child  and  shorten 
his  days ;  for  when  Fritz  came  of  age',  Uncle  Virlaz  had 
handed  over  a  very  pretty  fortune  to  his  nephew.  But  while 
roulette  at  Baden  and  elsewhere,  and  boon  companions  (Wil- 
helm  Schwab  among  them)  devoured  the  substance  accumu- 
lated by  Uncle  Virlaz,  the  prodigal  son  himself  remained  by 
the  will  of  Providence  to  point  a  moral  to  younger  brothers 
in  the  free  city  of  Frankfort ;  parents  held  him  up  as  a  warn- 
ing and  an  awful  example  to  their  offspring  to  scare  them  into 
steady  attendance  in  their  cast-iron  counting-rooms,  lined 
with  silver  marks. 

But  so  far  from  perishing  in  the  flower  of  his  age,  Fritz 
Brunner  had  the  pleasure  of  laying  his  stepmother  in  one  of 


154  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

those  charming  little  German  cemeteries,  in  which  the  Teuton 
indulges  his  unbridled  passion  for  horticulture  under  the 
specious  pretext  of  honoring  his  dead.  And  as  the  second 
Mme.  Brunner  expired  while  the  authors  of  her  being  were 
yet  alive,  Brunner  senior  was  obliged  to  bear  the  loss  of  the 
sums  of  which  his  wife  had  drained  his  coffers,  to  say  nothing 
of  other  ills  which  had  told  upon  a  Herculean  constitution, 
till  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven  the  innkeeper  had  weazened  and 
dried  up — shrunk  as  if  the  famous  Borgia's  poison  had  under- 
mined his  system.  For  ten  whole  years  he  had  supported  his 
wife,  and  now  he  inherited  nothing  !  The  innkeeper  was  a 
second  ruin  of  Heidelberg,  repaired  continually,  it  is  true,  by 
travelers'  hotel  bills,  much  as  the  remains  of  the  castle  of 
Heidelberg  itself  are  repaired  to  sustain  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
tourists  who  flock  to  see  so  fine  and  well-preserved  a  relic  of 
antiquity. 

At  Frankfort  the  disappointment  caused  as  much  talk  as  a 
failure.  People  pointed  out  Brunner,  saying:  "See  what  a 
man  may  come  to  with  a  bad  wife  that  leaves  him  nothing  and 
a  son  brought  up  in  the  French  fashion." 

In  Italy  and  Germany  the  French  nation  is  the  root  of  all 
evil,  the  target  for  all  bullets.  "  But  the  god  pursuing  his 
way "     (For  the  rest,  see  Lefranc  de  Pompignan's  Ode.) 

The  wrath  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Grand  Hotel  de  Hoi- 
lande  fell  on  others  beside  the  travelers,  whose  bills  were 
swelled  with  his  resentment.  When  his  son  was  utterly  ruined, 
Gideon,  regarding  him  as  the  indirect  cause  of  all  his  mis- 
fortunes, refused  him  bread  and  salt,  fire,  lod.ging,  and  tobacco 
— the  force  of  the  paternal  malediction  in  a  German  and  an 
innkeeper  could  no  furtlier  go.  Whereupon  the  local  authori- 
ties, making  no  allowance  for  the  father's  misdeeds,  regarded 
him  as  one  of  the  most  ill-used  persons  in  Frankfort-on-the- 
Main,  came  to  his  assistance,  fastened  a  quarrel  on  Fritz  {une 
qiierelle.  iV Allema?id^,'^  and  expelled  him  from  the  territory 

*  Lit. :  A  German  quanel — meaning  a  groundless  o:ie. 


COUSnV  PONS.  155 

of  the  free  city.  Justice  in  Frankfort  is  no  whit  wiser  nor 
more  humane  than  elsewhere,  albeit  the  city  is  the  seat  of  the 
German  Diet.  It  is  not  often  that  a  magistrate  traces  back 
the  stream  of  wrongdoing  and  misfortune  to  the  holder  of  the 
urn  from  which  the  first  beginnings  trickled  forth.  If  Brunner 
forgot  his  son,  his  son's  friends  speedily  followed  the  old  inn- 
keeper's example. 

Ah  !  if  the  journalists,  the  dandies,  and  some  few  fair  Pari- 
sians among  the  audience  wondered  how  that  German  with 
the  tragical  countenance  had  cropped  up  on  a  first  night  to 
occupy  a  side-box  all  to  himself  when  fashionable  Paris  filled 
the  house — if  these  could  have  seen  the  history  played  out 
upon  the  stage  before  the  prompter's  box,  they  would  have 
found  it  far  more  interesting  than  the  transformation  scenes  of 
"The  Devil's  Betrothed,"  though  indeed  it  was  the  two  hun- 
dred thousandth  representation  of  a  sublime  allegory  performed 
aforetime  in  Mesopotamia  three  thousand  years  before  Christ 
was  born. 

Fritz  betook  himself  on  foot  to  Strasbourg,  and  there  found 
what  the  prodigal  son  of  the  Bible  failed  to  find — to  wit,  a 
friend.  And  herein  is  revealed  the  superiority  of  Alsace, 
where  so  many  generous  hearts  beat  to  show  Germany  the 
beauty  of  a  combination  of  Gallic  wit  and  Teutonic  solidity. 
Wilhelm  Schwab,  but  lately  left  in  possession  of  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  by  the  death  of  both  parents,  opened  his  arms, 
his  heart,  his  house,  his  purse  to  Fritz.  As  for  describing 
Fritz's  feelings,  when  dusty,  down  on  his  luck,  and  almost 
like  a  leper,  he  crossed  the  Rhine  and  found  a  real  twenty- 
franc  piece  held  out  by  the  hand  of  a  real  friend — that 
moment  transcends  the  powers  of  the  prose-writer ;  Pindar 
alone  could  give  it  forth  to  humanity  in  Greek  that  should 
rekindle  the  dying  warmth  of  friendship  in  the  world. 

Put  the  names  of  Fritz  and  Wilhelm  beside  those  of  Damon 
and  Pythias,  Castor  and  Pollux,  Orestes  and  Pylades,  Dubreuil 
and  Pmejah,  Schmucke  and  Pons,  and  all  the  names  that  we 


156  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

imagine  for  the  two  friends  of  Monomotapa,  for  La  Fontaine 
(man  of  genius  though  he  was)  has  made  of  them  two  dis- 
embodied spirits — they  lack  reality.  The  two  new  names  may 
join  the  illustrious  company,  and  with  so  much  the  more 
reason,  since  that  Wilhelm  who  had  helped  to  drink  Fritz's 
inheritance  now  proceeded,  with  Fritz's  assistance,  to  devour 
his  own  substance  ;  smoking,  needless  to  say,  every  known 
varietv  of  tobacco. 

The  pair,  strange  to  relate,  squandered  the  property  in  the 
dullest,  stupidest,  most  commonplace  fashion,  in  Strasbourg 
brasseries  (brew-houses),  in  the  company  of  ballet-girls  of  the 
Strasbourg  theatres,  and  little  Alsaciennes  who  had  not  a  rag 
of  a  tattered  reputation  left. 

Every  morning  they  would  say  :  "  We  must  really  stop  this, 
and  make  up  our  minds  and  do  something  or  other  with  the 
money  that  is  left." 

"  Pooh  !  "  Fritz  would  retort,  "just  one  more  day,  and  to- 
morrow " — ah  !  to-morrow. 

In  the  lives  of  Prodigal  Sons,  To-day  is  a  prodigious  cox- 
comb, but  To-morrow  is  a  very  poltroon,  taking  fright  at  the 
big  words  of  his  predecessor.  To-day  is  the  truculent  captain 
of  old-world  comedy.  To-morrow  the  clown  of  modern 
pantomime. 

When  the  two  friends  had  reached  their  last  thousand-franc 
note,  they  took  places  in  the  mail-coach,  styled  Royal,  and 
departed  for  Paris,  where  they  installed  themselves  in  the 
attics  of  the  Hotel  du  Rhin,  in  the  Rue  du  Mail,  the  property 
of  one  Graff,  formerly  Gideon  Brunner's  h-ead-waiter.  Fritz 
found  a  situation  as  clerk  in  the  Kellers'  bank  (on  Graff's 
recommendation),  with  a  salary  of  six  hundred  francs.  And 
a  place  as  book-keeper  was  likewise  found  for  Wilhelm,  in  the 
business  of  Graff  the  fashionable  tailor,  brother  of  Graff  of 
the  Hotel  du  Rhin,  who  found  the  scantily  paid  employment 
for  the  pair  of  prodigals  for  the  sake  of  old  times  and  his 
apprenticeship  at  the  Hotel  de  Hollande.     These  two  inci- 


COUSIN  PONS.  157 

dents — the  recognition  of  a  i  jined  man  by  a  well-to-do  friend, 
and  a  German  innkeeper  interesting  himself  in  two  penniless 
fellow-countrymen — give,  no  doubt,  an  air  of  improbability  to 
the  story,  but  truth  is  so  much  the  more  like  fiction,  since 
modern  writers  of  fiction  have  been  at  such  untold  pains  to 
imitate  truth. 

It  was  not  long  before  Fritz,  a  clerk  with  six  hundred 
francs,  and  Wilhelm,  a  book-keeper  with  precisely  the  same 
salary,  discovered  the  difficulties  of  existence  in  a  city  so  full 
of  temptations.  In  1837,  the  second  year  of  their  abode, 
Wilhelm,  who  possessed  a  pretty  talent  for  the  flute,  entered 
Pons'  orchestra,  to  earn  a  little  occasional  butter  to  put  on  his 
dry  bread.  As  to  Fritz,  his  only  way  to  an  increase  of  income 
lay  through  the  display  of  the  capacity  for  business  inherited 
by  a  descendant  of  the  Virlaz  family.  Yet,  in  spite  of  his 
assiduity,  in  spite  of  abilities  which  possibly  may  have  stood 
in  his  way,  his  salary  only  reached  the  sum  of  two  thousand 
francs  in  1843.  Penury,  that  divine  stepmother,  did  for  the 
two  young  men  all  that  their  mothers  had  not  been  able  to  do 
for  them ;  Poverty  taught  them  thrift  and  worldly  wisdom ; 
Poverty  gave  them  her  grand  rough  education,  the  lessons 
which  she  drives  with  hard  knocks  into  the  heads  of  great 
men,  who  seldom  know  a  happy  childhood.  Fritz  and 
Wilhelm,  being  but  ordinary  men,  learned  as  little  as  they 
possibly  could  in  her  school  \  they  dodged  the  blows,  shrank 
from  her  hard  breast  and  bony  arms,  and  never  discovered  the 
good  fairy  lurking  within,  ready  to  yield  to  the  caresses  of 
genius.  One  thing,  however,  they  learned  thoroughly — they 
discovered  the  value  of  money,  and  vowed  to  clip  the  wings 
of  riches  if  ever  a  second  fortune  should  come  to  their  door. 

This  was  the  history  which  Wilhelm  Schwab  related  in 
German,  at  much  greater  length,  to  his  friend  the  pianist, 
ending  with — 

"Well,  Papa  Schmucke,  the  rest  is  soon  explained.  Old 
Brunner  is  dead.     He  left  foi-'r  millions  !     He  made  an  im- 


158  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

mense  amount  of  money  out  of  Baden  railways,  though  neither 
his  son  nor  Graff,  with  whom  we  lodge,  had  any  idea  that  the 
old  man  was  one  of  the  original  shareholders.  I  am  playing 
the  flute  here  for  the  last  time  this  evening  ;  I  would  have  left 
some  days  ago,  but  this  was  a  first  performance,  and  I  did  not 
want  to  spoil  my  part." 

"  Goot,  mein  frient,"  said  Schmucke.  "But  who  is  die 
prite?" 

"  She  is  Mademoiselle  Graff,  the  daughter  of  our  host,  the 
landlord  of  the  Hotel  du  Rhin.  I  have  loved  Mile. 
Emilie  these  seven  years;  she  has  read  so  many  immoral 
novels,  that  she  refused  all  offers  for  me,  without  knowing 
what  might  come  of  it.  She  will  be  a  very  wealthy  young 
lady  ;  her  uncles,  the  tailors  in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  will 
leave  her  all  their  money.  Fritz  is  giving  me  the  money  we 
squandered  at  Strasbourg  five  times  over  !  He  is  putting  a 
million  francs  in  a  banking  house.  Monsieur  Graff  the  tailor  is 
adding  another  five  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  Mademoi- 
selle Emilie's  father  not  only  allows  me  to  incorporate  her 
portion — two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs — with  the 
capital,  but  he  himself  will  be  a  shareholder  with  as  much 
again.  So  the  firm  of  Brunner,  Schwab  &  Company  will 
start  with  two  million  five  hundred  thousand  francs.  Fritz 
has  just  bought  fifteen  hundred  thousand  francs'  worth  of 
shares  in  the  Bank  of  France  to  guarantee  our  account  with 
them.  That  is  not  all  Fritz's  fortune.  He  has  his  father's 
house  property,  supposed  to  be  worth  another  million,  and  he 
has  let  the  Grand  Hotel  de  Hollande  already  to  a  cousin  of 
the  Graffs." 

"You  look  sad  ven  you  look  at  your  frient,"  remarked 
Schmucke,  who  had  listened  with  great  interest.  "  Kan  you 
pe  chealous  of  him  ?  " 

"I  am  jealous  for  Fritz's  happiness,"  said  Wilhelm. 
"  Does  that  face  look  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  happy  man  ?  I 
am  afraid  of  Paris;  I  should  like  to  see  him  do  as  I  am  doing. 


COUSIN  PONS.  159 

The  old  tempter  may  awake  again.  Of  our  two  heads,  his 
carries  the  less  ballast.  His  dress,  and  the  opera-glass,  and 
the  rest  of  it  make  me  anxious.  He  keeps  looking  at  the 
lorettes  in  the  house.  Oh  !  if  you  only  knew  how  hard  it  is 
to  marry  Fritz.  He  has  a  horror  of  '  going  a-courting,'  as 
you  say ;  you  would  have  to  give  him  a  drop  into  a  family, 
just  as  in  England  they  give  a  man  a  drop  into  the  next  world 
when  he  is  hung." 

During  the  uproar  that  usually  marks  the  end  of  a  first 
niiiht,  the  flute  delivered  his  invitation  to  the  conductor. 
Pons  accepted  gleefully;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  three 
months,  Schmucke  saw  a  smile  on  his  friend's  face.  They 
went  back  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie  in  perfect  silence  ;  that 
sudden  flash  of  joy  had  thrown  a  light  on  the  extent  of  the 
disease  which  was  consuming  Pons.  Oh,  that  a  man  so  truly 
noble,  so  disinterested,  so  great  in  feeling,  should  have  such 
a  weakness  !  This  was  the  thought  which  struck  the  stoic 
Schmucke  dumb  with  amazement.  He  grew  wofully  sad,  for 
he  began  to  see  that  there  was  no  help  for  it  \  he  must  even 
renounce  the  pleasure  of  seeing  "his  goot  Bons  "  opposite 
him  at  the  dinner-table,  for  the  sake  of  Pons'  welfare ;  and  he 
did  not  know  whether  he  could  give  him  up;  the  mere 
thou2:ht  of  it  drove  him  distracted. 

Meantime,  Pons'  proud  silence  and  withdrawal  to  the  Mons 
Aventinus  of  the  Rue  de  Normandie  had,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, impressed  the  presidente,  not  that  she  troubled  herself 
much  about  her  parasite,  now  that  she  was  freed  from  him. 
She  thought,  with  her  charming  daughter,  that  Cousin  Pons 
had  seen  through  her  little  "Lili's"  joke.  But  it  was  other- 
wise with  her  liusband  the  president. 

Camusot  de  Marville,  a  short  and  stout  man,  grown  solemn 
since  his  promotion  at  the  Court,  admired  Cicero,  preferred 
the  Opera-Comique  to  the  Italiens,  compared  the  actors  one 
with  another,  and  followed  the  multitude  step  by  step.  He 
used  to  recite  all  the  articles  in  the  Ministerialist  journals,  as 


160  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

if  he  were  saying  something  original,  and  in  giving  his  opin- 
ion at  the  Council  Board  he  paraphrased  the  remarks  of  the 
previous  speaker.  His  leading  characteristics  were  sufificiently 
well  known  ;  his  position  compelled  him  to  take  everything 
seriously ;  and  he  was  particularly  tenacious  of  family  ties. 

Like  most  men  who  are  ruled  by  their  wives,  the  president 
asserted  his  independence  in  trifles,  in  which  his  wife  was  very 
careful  not  to  thwart  him.  For  a  month  he  was  satisfied  with 
the  presidente's  commonplace  explanations  of  Pons'  disap- 
pearance ;  but  at  last  it  struck  him  as  singular  that  the  old 
musician,  a  friend  of  forty  years'  standing,  should  first  make 
them  so  valuable  a  present  as  a  fan  that  belonged  to  Mme.  de 
Pompadour,  and  then  immediately  discontinue  his  visits. 
Count  Popinot  had  pronounced  the  trinket  a  masterpiece  ; 
when  its  owner  went  to  Court,  the  fan  had  been  passed  from 
hand  to  hand,  and  her  vanity  was  not  a  little  gratified  by  the 
compliments  it  received  ;  others  had  dwelt  on  the  beauties  of 
the  ten  ivory  sticks,  each  one  covered  with  delicate  carving, 
the  like  of  which  had  never  been  seen.  A  Russian  lady  (Rus- 
sian ladies  are  apt  to  forget  that  they  are  not  in  Russia)  had 
offered  her  six  thousand  francs  for  the  marvel  one  day  at 
Count  Popinot's  house,  and  smiled  to  see  it  in  such  hands. 
Truth  to  tell,  it  was  a  fan  for  a  duchess. 

"It  cannot  be  denied  that  poor  Cousin  Pons  understands 
rubbish  of  that  sort "  said  Cecile,  the  day  after  the  bid. 

"Rubbish!"  cried  the  parent.  "Why,  Government  is 
just  about  to  buy  the  late  Monsieur  le  Conseiller  Dusom- 
merard's  collection  for  three  hundred  thousand  francs  ;  and 
the  State  and  the  Municipality  of  Paris  between  them  are 
spending  nearly  a  million  francs  over  the  purchase  and  repair 
of  the  Hotel  de  Cluny  to  house  the  'rubbish,'  as  you  call  it. 
Such  'rubbish,'  dear  child,"  he  resumed,  "is  frequently  all 
that  remains  of  vanished  civilizations.  An  Etruscan  jar,  and 
a  necklace,  which  sometimes  fetch  forty  or  fifty  thousand 
francs,  is  '  rubbish  '  which  reveals  the  perfection  of  art  at  the 


COUSTN  PONS.  161 

time  of  the  siege  of  Troy,  proving  that  the  Etruscans  were 
Trojan  refugees  in  Italy." 

This  was  the  president's  cumbrous  way  of  joking  ;  the  short, 
fat  man  was  heavily  ironical  with  his  wife  and  daughter. 

"  The  combination  of  various  kinds  of  knowledge  required 
to  understand  such  'rubbish,'  Cecile,"  he  resumed,  "is  a 
science  in  itself,  called  archaeology.  Archaeology  compre- 
hends architecture,  sculpture,  painting,  goldsmiths'  work, 
ceramics,  cabinetmaking  (a  purely  modern  art),  lace,  tapestry 
— in  short,  human  handiwork  of  every  sort  and  description." 

"Then  Cousin  Pons  is  learned?"  said  Cecile. 

"Ah!  by-the-by,  why  is  he  never  to  be  seen  nowadays?" 
asked  the  president.  He  spoke  with  the  air  of  a  man  in  whom 
thousands  of  forgotten  and  dormant  impressions  have  suddenly 
begun  to  stir,  and  shaping  themselves  into  one  idea,  reach 
consciousness  with  a  ricochet,  as  sportmen  say. 

"He  must  have  taken  offense  at  nothing  at  all,"  answered 
his  wife.  "  I  dare  say  I  was  not  as  fully  sensible  as  I  might 
have  been  of  the  value  of  the  fan  that  he  gave  me.  I  am 
ignorant  enough,  as  you  know,  of " 

"  Yoti!  One  of  Servin's  best  pupils,  and  you  don't  know 
Watteau?"  cried  the  president. 

"I  know  Gerard  and  David  and  Gros  and  Girodet,  and 
Monsieur  de  Forbin  and  Monsieur  Turpin  de  Crisse " 

"You  ought " 

"Ought  what,  sir?"  demanded  the  lady,  gazing  at  her 
husband  with  the  air  of  a  Queen  of  Sheba. 

"  To  know  a  Watteau  when  you  see  it,  my  dear.  Watteau 
is  very  much  in  fashion,"  answered  the  president  with  meek- 
ness, that  told  plainly  how  much  he  owed  to  his  wife. 

This  conversation  took  place  a  few  days  before  that  night 
of  first  performance  of  "The  Devil's  Betrothed,"  when  the 
whole  orchestra  noticed  how  ill  Pons  was  looking.  But  by 
that  time  all  the  circle  of  dinner-givers  who  were  used  to  see 
Pons'  face  at  their  tables,  and  to  send  him  on  errands,  had 
11 


162  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

begun  to  ask  each  other  for  news  of  him,  and  uneasiness 
increased  when  it  was  reported  by  some  who  had  seen  him 
that  he  was  always  in  his  place  at  the  theatre.  Pons  had  been 
very  careful  to  avoid  his  old  acquaintances  whenever  he  met 
them  in  the  streets ;  but  one  day  it  so  fell  out  that  he  met 
Count  Popinot,  the  ex-cabinet  minister,  face  to  face  in  a  bric- 
a-brac  dealer's  store  in  the  new  Boulevard  Beaumarchais. 
The  dealer  was  none  other  than  that  Monistrol  of  whom  Pons 
had  spoken  to  the  presidente,  one  of  the  famous  and  auda- 
cious vendors  whose  cunning  enthusiasm  leads  them  to  set  more 
and  more  value  daily  on  their  wares ;  for  curiosities,  they  tell 
you,  are  growing  so  scarce  that  they  are  hardly  to  be  found  at 
all  nowadays. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Pons,  how  comes  it  that  we  never  see  you 
now?  We  miss  you  very  much,  and  Madame  Popinot  does 
not  know  what  to  think  of  your  desertion." 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  the  good  man,  "I  was  made 
to  feel  in  the  house  of  a  relative  that  at  my  age  one  is  not 
wanted  in  the  world.  1  have  never  had  much  consideration 
shown  me,  but  at  any  rate  I  had  not  been  insulted.  I  have 
never  asked  anything  of  any  man,"  he  broke  out  with  an 
artist's  pride.  "  I  have  often  made  myself  useful  in  return 
for  hospitality.  But  I  have  made  a  mistake,  it  seems ;  I  am 
infinitely  beholden  to  those  who  honor  me  by  allowing  me 

to  sit  at  table  with  them  ;  my  friends,  my  relatives Well 

and  good ;  I  have  sent  in  my  resignation  as  Sraellfeast.  At 
home  I  find  daily  something  which  no  other  house  has  offered 
me — a  real  friend." 

The  old  artist's  power  had  not  failed  him ;  with  tone  and 
gesture  he  put  such  bitterness  into  the  words,  that  the  peer  of 
France  was  struck  by  them.     He  drew  Pons  aside. 

"Come,  now,  my  old  friend,  wliat  is  it?  What  has  hurt 
you?  Could  you  not  tell  me  in  confidence?  You  will  per- 
mit me  to  say  that  at  my  house,  surely,  you  have  always  met 
with  consideration " 


COUSIN  PONS.  163 

"You  are  the  one  exception,"  said  the  artist.  "  And,  be- 
side, you  are  a  great  lord  and  a  statesman,  you  have  so  many 
things  to  think  about.  That  would  excuse  anything,  if  there 
were  need  for  it." 

The  diplomatic  skill  that  Popinot  had  acquired  in  the  man- 
agement of  men  and  affairs  was  brought  to  bear  upon  Pons, 
till  at  length  the  story  of  his  misfortunes  in  the  president's 
house  was  drawn  from  him. 

Popinot  took  up  the  victim's  cause  so  warmly  that  he  told 
the  story  to  Mme.  Popinot  as  soon  as  he  went  home,  and  that 
excellent  and  noble-natured  woman  spoke  to  the  presidente 
on  the  subject  at  the  first  opportunity.  As  Popinot  himself 
likewise  said  a  word  or  two  to  the  president,  there  was  a 
general  explanation  in  the  family  of  Camusot  de  Marville. 

Camusot  was  not  exactly  master  in  his  own  house ;  but  this 
time  his  remonstrance  was  so  well  founded  in  law  and  in  fact, 
that  his  wife  and  daughter  were  forced  to  acknowledge  the 
truth.  They  both  humbled  themselves  and  threw  the  blame 
on  the  servants.  The  servants,  first  bidden  and  then  chidden, 
only  obtained  pardon  by  a  full  confession,  which  made  it 
clear  to  the  president's  mind  that  Pons  had  done  rightly  to 
stop  away.  The  president  displayed  himself  before  the  ser- 
vants in  all  his  masculine  and  magisterial  dignity,  after  the 
manner  of  men  who  are  ruled  by  their  wives.  He  informed 
his  household  that  they  should  be  dismissed  forthwith,  and 
forfeit  any  advantages  which  their  long  term  of  service  in  his 
house  might  have  brought  them,  unless  from  that  time  forward 
his  cousin  and  all  those  who  did  him  the  honor  of  coming  to 
his  house  were  treated  as  he  himself  was.  At  which  speech 
Madeleine  was  moved  to  smile. 

"  You  have  only  one  chance  of  salvation  as  it  is,"  con- 
tinued the  president.  "  Go  to  my  cousin,  make  your  excuses 
to  him,  and  tell  him  that  you  will  lose  your  situations  unless 
he  forgives  you,  for  I  shall  turn  you  all  away  if  he  does  not." 

Next  morning  the  president  went  out  fairly  early  to  pay  a 


164  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

call  on  his  cousin  before  going  down  to  the  court.  The  ap- 
parition of  M.  le  President  de  Marville,  announced  by  Mme. 
Cibot,  was  an  event  in  the  house.  Pons,  thus  honored  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  saw  reparation  ahead. 

"At  last,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  the  president  after  the 
ordinary  greetings;  "at  last  I  have  discovered  the  cause  of 
your  retreat.  Your  behavior  increases,  if  that  were  possible, 
my  esteem  for  you.  I  have  but  one  word  to  say  in  that  con- 
nection. My  servants  have  all  been  dismissed.  My  wife  and 
daughter  are  in  despair ;  they  want  to  see  you  to  have  an  ex- 
planation. In  all  this,  my  cousin,  there  is  one  innocent  per- 
son, and  he  is  an  old  judge  ;  you  will  not  punish  me,  will  you, 
for  the  escapade  of  a  thoughtless  child  who  wished  to  dine 
with  the  Popinots  ?  especially  when  I  come  to  beg  for  peace, 
admitting  that  all  the  wrong  has  been  on  our  side  ?  An  old 
friendship  of  thirty-six  years,  even  supposing  that  there  had 
been  a  misunderstanding,  has  still  some  claims.  Come,  sign 
a  treaty  of  peace  by  dining  with  us  to-night " 

Pons  involved  himself  in  a  diffuse  reply,  and  ended  by  in- 
forming his  cousin  that  he  was  to  sign  a  marriage-contract  that 
evening ;  how  that  one  of  the  orchestra  was  not  only  going  to 
be  married,  but  also  about  to  fling  his  flute  to  the  winds  to 
become  a  banker. 

"Very  well.     To-morrow." 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  Popinot  has  done  me  the  honor  of 
asking  me,  cousin.     She  was  so  kind  as  to  write " 

"The  day  after  to-morrow  then." 

"Monsieur  Brunner,  a  German,  my  first  flute's  future  part- 
ner, returns  the  compliment  paid  him  to-day  by  the  young 
couple " 

"  You  are  such  pleasant  company  that  it  is  not  surprising 
that  people  dispute  for  tlie  honor  of  seeing  you.  Very  well, 
next  Sunday?     Within  a  week,  as  we  say  at  the  courts?" 

"  On  Sunday  we  are  to  dine  with  Monsieur  Graff,  the  flute's 
father-in-law." 


COUSIN  PONS.  165 

"Very  well,  on  Saturday!  Between  now  and  then  you 
will  have  time  to  reassure  a  little  girl  who  has  shed  tears  al- 
ready over  her  fault.  God  asks  no  more  than  repentance  ; 
you  will  not  be  more  severe  than  the  Eternal  Father  with  poor 
little  Cecile? " 

Pons,  thus  reached  on  his  weak  side,  again  plunged  into 
formulas  more  than  polite,  and  went  as  far  as  the  stairhead 
with  the  president. 

An  hour  later  the  president's  servants  arrived  in  a  troop  on 
poor  Pons'  third  floor.  They  behaved  after  the  manner  of 
their  kind  ;  they  cringed  and  fawned  ;  they  wept.  Madeleine 
took  M.  Pons  aside  and  flung  herself  resolutely  at  his  feet. 

"  It  is  all  my  fault ;  and  monsieur  knows  quite  well  that  I 
love  him,"  here  she  burst  into  tears.  "It  was  vengeance 
boiling  in  my  veins;  monsieur  ought  to  throw  all  the  blame 
of  the  unhappy  aff"air  on  that.  We  are  all  to  lose  our  pen- 
sions  monsieur,  I  was  mad,  and  I  would  not  have  the  rest 

suffer  for  my  fault.  I  can  see  now  well  enough  that  fate  did 
not  make  me  for  monsieur.  I  have  come  to  my  senses,  I 
aimed  too  high,  but  I  love  you  still,  monsieur.  These  ten 
years  I  have  thought  of  nothing  but  the  happiness  of  making 
you  happy  and  looking  after  things  here.  What  a  lot !  Oh ! 
if  monsieur  but  knew  how  much  I  love  him  !  But  monsieur 
must  have  seen  it  through  all  my  mischief-making.  If  I  were 
to  die  to-morrow,  what  would  they  find  ?  A  will  in  your 
favor,  monsieur.  Yes,  monsieur,  in  my  trunk  under  my  best 
things." 

Madeleine  had  set  a  responsive  chord  vibrating ;  the  pas- 
sion inspired  in  another  may  be  unwelcome,  but  it  will  always 
be  gratifying  to  self-love  ;  this  was  the  case  with  the  old 
bachelor.  After  generously  pardoning  Madeleine,  he  ex- 
tended his  forgiveness  to  the  other  servants,  promising  to  use 
his  influence  with  his  cousin  the  presidente  on  their  behalf. 

It  was  unspeakably  pleasant  to  Pons  to  find  all  his  old  en- 
joyments restored  to  him  without  any  loss  of  self-respect.    The 


166  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

world  had  come  to  Pons,  he  had  risen  in  the  esteem  of  his 
circle ;  but  Schmucke  looked  so  downcast  and  dubious  when 
he  heard  the  story  of  the  triumph,  that  Pons  felt  hurt. 
When,  however,  the  kind-hearted  German  saw  the  sudden 
change  wrought  in  Pons'  face,  he  ended  by  rejoicing  with  his 
friend,  and  made  a  sacrifice  of  the  happiness  that  he  had 
known  during  those  four  months  that  he  had  had  Pons  all  to 
himself.  Mental  suffering  has  this  immense  advantage  over 
physical  ills — when  the  cause  is  removed  it  ceases  at  once. 
Pons  was  not  like  the  same  man  that  morning.  The  old  man, 
depressed  and  visibly  failing,  had  given  place  to  the  serenely 
contented  Pons,  who  entered  the  presidente's  house  that 
October  afternoon  with  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour's  fan  in 
his  pocket.  Schmucke,  on  the  other  hand,  pondered  deeply 
over  this  phenomenon,  and  could  not  understand  it ;  your 
true  stoic  never  can  understand  the  courtier  that  dwells  in  a 
Frenchman.  Pons  was  a  born  Frenchman  of  the  Empire;  a 
mixture  of  eighteenth-century  gallantry  and  that  devotion  to 
womankind  so  often  celebrated  in  songs  of  the  type  of  "  Par- 
tant  pour  la  Syrie." 

So  Schmucke  was  fain  to  bury  his  chagrin  beneath  the 
flowers  of  his  German  philosophy ;  but  a  week  later  he  grew 
so  yellow  that  Mme.  Cibot  exerted  her  ingenuity  to  call  in 
the  parish  doctor.  The  leech  had  fears  of  icterus,  and  left 
Mme.  Cibot  frightened  half  out  of  her  wits  by  the  Latin 
word  for  an  attack  of  the  jaundice. 

Meantime  the  two  friends  went  out  to  dinner  together,  per- 
haps for  the  first  time  in  their  lives.  For  Schmucke  it  was  a 
return  to  the  Fatherland  ;  for  Johann  Graff  of  the  Hotel  du 
Rhin  and  his  daughter  Emilie,  Wolfgang  Graff  the  tailor  and 
his  wife,  Fritz  Brunner  and  Wilhelm  Schwab  were  Germans, 
and  Pons  and  the  notary  were  the  only  Frenchmen  present  at 
the  banquet.  The  Graffs  of  the  tailor's  business  owned  a 
splendid  house  in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  between  the  Rue 
Neuve-des-Pet its-Champs   and    the   Rue   Villedo;    they   had 


COUSIN  PONS.  107 

brought  up  their  niece,  for  Emilia's  father,  not  without 
reason,  had  feared  contact  with  the  very  mixed  society  of  an 
inn  for  his  daughter.  The  good  tailor  Graffs,  who  loved 
Emilia  as  if  she  had  been  their  own  daughter,  were  giving  up 
the  first  floor  of  their  great  house  to  the  young  couple,  and 
here  the  bank  of  Brunner,  Schwab  &  Company  was  to  be 
established.  The  arrangements  for  the  marriage  had  been 
made  about  a  month  ago ;  some  time  must  elapse  before  Fritz 
Brunner,  author  of  all  this  felicity,  could  settle  his  deceased 
father's  affairs,  and  the  famous  firm  of  tailors  had  taken  ad- 
vantage of  the  delay  to  redecorate  the  second  floor  and  to 
furnish  it  very  handsomely  for  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 
The  offices  of  the  bank  had  been  fitted  into  the  wing  which 
united  a  handsome  business  house  with  the  old  hotel  at  the 
back,  between  courtyard  and  garden. 

On  the  way  from  the  Rue  de  Normandie  to  the  Rue  da 
Richelieu,  Pons  drew  from  the  abstracted  Schmucke  the  de- 
tails of  the  story  of  the  modern  prodigal  son,  for  whom  Death 
had  killed  the  fatted  innkeeper.  Pons,  but  newly  reconciled 
with  his  nearest  relatives,  was  immediately  smitten  with  a  de- 
sire to  make  a  match  between  Fritz  Brunner  and  Cecile  de 
Marville.  Chance  ordained  that  the  notary  was  none  other 
than  Berthier,  old  Cardot's  son-in-law  and  successor,  the 
sometime  second  clerk  with  whom  Pons  had  been  v,'ont  to 
dine. 

"Ah  !  Monsieur  Berthier,  you  here?"  he  said,  holding  out 
a  hand  to  his  host  of  former  days. 

"We  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  dinner 
lately;  how  is  it?"  returned  the  notary.  "My  wife  has 
been  anxious  about  you.  Wa  saw  you  at  the  first  performance 
of  'The  Devil's  Betrothed,'  and  our  anxiety  became  cur- 
iosity?" 

"Old  people  are  very  sensitive,"  replied  the  worthy  musi- 
cian ;  "  they  make  the  mistake  of  being  a  century  behind  the 
times,  but  see,  now,  how  can  it  be  helped  ?    It  is  quite  enough 


168  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

to  represent  one  century — they  cannot  entirely  belong  to  the 
century  which  sees  them  die." 

*''Ah  !  "  said  the  notary,  with  a  shrewd  look,  "one  cannot, 
run  two  centuries  at  once." 

"By-the-by,"  continued  Pons,  drawing  the  young  lawyei 
into  a  corner,  "why  do  you  not  find  some  one  for  my  cousin 
Cecile  de  Marville " 

"Ah!  wiiy ?"  answered  Berthier.     "In  this  century, 

when  luxury  has  filtered  down  to  our  very  porters'  lodges,  a 
young  fellow  hesitates  before  uniting  his  lot  with  the  daughter 
of  a  president  of  the  Court  of  Appeals  in  Paris  if  she  brings 
him  only  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  In  the  rank  of  life  in 
which  Mademoiselle  de  Marville's  husband  would  take,  the 
wife  was  never  yet  known  that  did  not  cost  her  husband  three 
thousand  francs  a  year ;  the  interest  on  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  would  scarcely  find  her  in  pin-money.  A  bachelor 
with  an  income  of  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  francs  can  live 
on  an  entresol ;  he  is  not  expected  to  cut  any  figure ;  he  need 
not  keep  more  than  one  servant,  and  all  his  surplus  income  he 
can  spend  on  his  amusements ;  he  puts  himself  in  the  hands  of 
a  good  tailor,  and  need  not  trouble  any  further  about  keeping 
up  appearances.  Far-sighted  mothers  make  much  of  him ;  he 
is  one  of  the  kings  of  fashion  in  Paris. 

"  But  a  wife  changes  everything.  A  wife  means  a  properly 
furnished  house,"  continued  the  lawyer;  "she  wants  the  car- 
riage for  herself;  if  she  goes  to  the  play,  she  wants  a  box, 
while  the  bachelor  has  only  a  stall  to  pay  for ;  in  short,  a  wife 
represents  the  whole  of  the  income  which"  the  bachelor  used  to 
spend  on  himself.  Suppose  that  husband  and  wife  have  thirty 
thousand  francs  a  year  between  them — practically,  the  some- 
time bachelor  is  a  poor  devil  who  thinks  twice  before  he  drives 
out  to  Chantilly.  Bring  children  on  the  scene — he  is  pinched 
for  money  at  once. 

"  Now,  as  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Marville  are  scarcely 
turned  fifty,  Cecile's  expectations  are  bills  that  will  not  fall 


COUSIN  PONS.  169 

due  for  fifteen  or  twenty  years  to  come ;  and  no  young  fellow- 
cares  to  keep  them  so  long  in  his  portfolio.  The  young  feather- 
heads  who  are  dancing  the  polka  with  lorettes  at  the 
Mabille  Garden  are  so  cankered  with  self-interest  that  they 
don't  stand  in  need  of  us  to  explain  both  sides  of  the  problem 
to  them.  Between  ourselves,  I  may  say  that  Mademoiselle  de 
Marville  scarcely  sets  hearts  throbbing  so  fast  but  that  their 
owners  can  perfectly  keep  their  heads,  and  they  are  full  of  these 
antimatrimonial  reflections.  If  any  eligible  young  man,  in 
full  possession  of  his  senses  and  an  income  of  twenty  thousand 
francs,  happens  to  be  sketching  out  a  programme  of  a  marriage 
that  will  satisfy  his  ambitions,  Mademoiselle  de  Marville  does 
not  altogether  answer  the  description " 

"And  why  not?"  asked  the  bewildered  musician. 

"Oh! "    said    the   notary,    "well a   young   man 

nowadays  may  be  as  ugly  as  you  and  I,  my  dear  Pons,  but  he 
is  almost  sure  to  have  the  impertinence  to  want  six  hundred 
thousand  francs,  a  girl  of  good  family,  with  wit  and  good 
looks  and  good  breeding — flawless  perfection,  in  short." 

"Then  it  will  not  be  easy  to  marry  her?  " 

"  She  will  not  be  married  so  long  as  Monsieur  and  Madame 
de  Marville  cannot  make  up  their  minds  to  settle  Marville  on 
her  when  she  marries  ;  if  they  had  chosen,  she  might  have  been 
the  Vicomtesse  Popinot  by  now.  But  here  comes  Monsieur 
Brunner.  We  are  about  to  read  the  deeds  of  partnership  and 
the  marriage-contract." 

Greetings  and  introductions  over,  the  relations  made  Pons 
promise  to  sign  the  contract.  He  listened  to  the  reading  of 
the  documents,  and  toward  half-past  five  the  party  went  into 
the  dining-room.  The  dinner  was  magnificent,  as  a  city 
merchant's  dinner  can  be,  when  he  allows  himself  a  respite 
from  money-making.  Graff"  of  the  Hotel  du  Rhin  was  ac- 
quainted with  the  first  provision  dealers  in  Paris ;  never  had 
Pons  nor  Schmucke  fared  so  sumptuously.  The  dishes  were  a 
rapture  to  think  of!     Italian  paste,  delicate  of  flavor,  unknown 


170  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

to  the  public  ;  smelts  fried  as  never  smelts  were  fried  before ; 
fish  from  Lake  Leman,  with  a  real  Genevese  sauce ;  and  a 
cream  for  plum-pudding  which  would  have  astonished  the 
London  doctor  who  is  said  to  have  invented  it.  It  was  nearly 
ten  o'clock  before  they  rose  from  table.  The  amount  of  wine, 
German  and  French,  consumed  at  that  dinner  would  amaze 
the  contemporary  dandy  ;  nobody  knows  the  amount  of  liquor 
that  a  German  can  imbibe  and  yet  keep  calm  and  quiet ;  to 
have  even  an  idea  of  the  quantity,  you  must  dine  in  Germany 
and  watch  bottle  succeed  to  bottle,  like  wave  rippling  after 
wave  along  the  sunny  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  dis- 
appear as  if  the  Teuton  possessed  the  absorbing  power  of 
sponges  or  sea-sand.  Perfect  harmony  prevails  meanwhile; 
there  is  none  of  the  racket  that  there  would  be  over  the  liquor 
in  France;  the  talk  is  as  sober  as  a  money-lender's  extempore 
speech ;  countenances  flush,  like  the  faces  of  the  brides  in 
frescoes  by  Cornelius  or  Schnorr  (imperceptibly,  that  is  to 
say),  and  reminiscences  are  poured  out  slov/ly  while  the  smoke 
puffs  from  the  pipes. 

About  half-past  ten  that  evening  Pons  and  Schmucke  found 
themselves  sitting  on  a  bench  out  in  the  garden,  with  the  ex- 
flute  between  them  ;  they  were  explaining  their  characters, 
opinions,  and  misfortunes,  with  no  very  clear  idea  as  to  why 
or  how  they  had  come  to  this  point.  In  the  thick  of  a  pot- 
pourri of  confidences,  Wilhelm  spoke  of  his  strong  desire  to 
see  Fritz  married,  expressing  himself  with  vehement  and 
vinous  eloquence. 

''  What  do  you  say  to  this  programme  for  your  friend 
Brunner?"  cried  Pons  in  confidential  tones.  "A  charming 
and  sensible  young  lady  of  twenty-four,  belonging  to  a  family 
of  the  highest  distinction.  The  father  holds  a  very  high  posi- 
tion as  a  judge ;  there  v/ill  be  a  hundred  thousand  francs  paid 
down  and  a  million  to  come." 

"  Wait  !"  answered  Schwab;  "  I  will  speak  to  Fritz  this 
instant." 


COUSIN  PONS.  171 

The  pair  watched  Brunner  and  his  friend  as  they  walked 
round  and  round  the  garden ;  again  and  again  they  passed  the 
bench,  sometimes  one  spoke,  sometimes  the  other. 

Pons  was  not  exactly  intoxicated  ;  his  head  was  a  little 
heavy,  but  his  thoughts,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  all  the 
lighter ;  he  watched  Fritz  Brunner's  face  through  the  rainbow 
mist  made  of  fumes  of  wine,  and  tried  to  read  auguries  favor- 
able to  his  family.  Before  very  long  Schwab  introduced  his 
friend  and  partner  to  M.  Pons;  Fritz  Brunner  expressed  his 
thanks  for  the  trouble  which  Pons  had  been  so  good  as  to 
take. 

In  the  conversation  which  followed,  the  two  old  bachelors, 
Schmucke  and  Pons,  extolled  the  estate  of  matrimony,  going 
so  far  as  to  say,  without  any  malicious  intent,  "that  marriage 
was  the  end  of  man."  Tea  and  ices,  punch  and  cakes,  were 
served  in  the  future  home  of  the  betrothed  couple.  The  wine 
had  begun  to  tell  upon  the  honest  merchants,  and  the  general 
hilarity  reached  its  height  when  it  was  announced  that  Schwab's 
partner  thought  of  following  his  example. 

At  two  o'clock  that  morning,  Schmucke  and  Pons  walked 
home  along  the  boulevards,  philosophizing  a  perte  de  raison^ 
as  they  went  on  the  harmony  pervading  the  arrangements  of 
this  our  world  below. 

On  the  morrow  of  the  banquet,  Cousin  Pons  betook  himself 
to  his  fair  cousin  the  prcsidente,  overjoyed — poor  dear  noble 
soul ! — to  return  good  for  evil.  Surely  lie  had  attained  to  a 
sublime  height,  as  every  one  will  allow,  for  we  live  in  an  age 
when  the  Montyon  prize  is  given  to  those  who  do  their  duty 
by  carrying  out  the  precepts  of  the  Gospel. 

"Ah  !  "  said  Pons  to  himself,  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  de  Choiseul,  "they  will  lie  under  immense  obligations  to 
their  parasite." 

Any  man  less  absorbed  in  his  contentment,  any  man  of  the 
world,  any  distrustful  nature,  would   have  watched  the  presi- 

*  In  rambling  talk. 


172  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

dent's  wife  and  daughter  very  narrowly  on  this  first  return  to 
the  house.  But  the  poor  musician  was  a  child,  he  had  all  the 
simplicity  of  an  artist,  believing  in  goodness  as  he  believed  in 
beauty;  so  he  was  delighted  when  Cecile  and  her  mother 
made  much  of  him.  After  all  the  vaudevilles,  tragedies,  and 
comedies  which  had  been  played  under  the  worthy  man's  eyes 
for  twelve  long  years,  he  could  not  detect  the  insincerity  and 
grimaces  of  social  comedy,  no  doubt  because  he  had  seen  too 
much  of  it.  Any  one  who  goes  into  society  in  Paris,  and 
knows  the  type  of  woman,  dried  up,  body  and  soul,  by  a 
burning  thirst  for  social  position,  and  a  fierce  desire  to  be 
thought  cunningly  virtuous,  any  one  familiar  with  the  sham 
piety  and  the  domineering  character  of  a  woman  whose  word 
is  law  in  her  own  house,  may  imagine  the  lurking  hatred  she 
bore  this  husband's  cousin  whom  she  had  wronged. 

All  the  demonstrative  friendliness  of  mother  and  daughter 
was  lined  with  a  formidable  longing  for  revenge,  that  must 
evidently  be  postponed.  For  the  first  time  in  Amelie  de 
Marville's  life  she  had  been  put  in  the  wrong,  and  that  in  the 
sight  of  the  husband  over  whom  she  tyrannized  ;  and  not  only 
so — she  was  obliged  to  be  amiable  to  the  author  of  her  defeat ! 
You  can  scarcely  find  a  match  for  this  position  save  in  the 
hypocritical  dramas  which  are  sometimes  kept  up  for  years  in 
the  sacred  college  of  cardinals,  or  in  chapters  of  certain  relig- 
ious orders. 

At  three  o'clock,  when  the  president  came  back  from  the 
law-courts,  Pons  had  scarcely  made  an  end  of  the  marvelous 
history  of  his  acquaintance,  M.  Frederic  Brunner.  Cecile 
had  gone  straight  to  the  point.  She  wanted  to  know  how 
Frederic  Brunner  was  dressed,  how  he  looked,  his  height  and 
figure,  the  color  of  his  hair  and  eyes;  and  when  she  had  con- 
jectured a  distinguished  air  for  Frederic,  she  admired  his 
generosity  of  character. 

"  Think  of  his  giving  five  hundred  thousand  francs  to  his 
companion  in  misfortune  !     Oh  !  mamma,  I  shall  have  a  car- 


COUSIN  PONS.  173 

riage  and  a  box  at  the  Italiens "     Cecile  grew  almost 

pretty  as  slie  thought  that  all  her  mother's  ambitions  for  her 
were  about  to  be  realized,  that  the  hopes  which  had  almost 
left  her  were  to  come  to  something  after  all. 

As  for  the  presidente,  all  that  she  said  was :  "  My  dear  little 
girl,  you  may  perhaps  be  married  within  the  fortnight." 

All  mothers  with  daughters  of  three-and-twenty  address  them 
as  "little  girl." 

"Still,"  added  the  president,  "in  any  case,  we  must  have 
time  to  make  inquiries;  never  will  I  give  my  daughter  to  just 
anybody " 

"As  to  inquiries,"  said  Pons,  "  Berthier  is  drawing  up  the 
deeds.  As  to  the  young  man  himself,  my  dear  cousin, 
you  remember  what  you  told  me?  Well,  lie  is  quite  forty 
years  old ;  he  is  bald.  He  wishes  to  find  in  family  life  a 
haven  after  storm  ;  I  did  not  dissuade  him ;  every  man  has 
his  taste " 

"One  reason  the  more  for  a  personal  interview,"  returned 
the  president.  "I  am  not  going  to  give  my  daughter  to  a 
valetudinarian." 

"Very  good,  cousin,  you  shall  see  ray  suitor  in  five  days  if 
you  like  ;  for,  with  your  views,  a  single  interview  would  be 
enough" — (Cecile  and  her  mother  signified  their  rapture) — 
"  Frederic  is  decidedly  a  distinguished  amateur ;  he  begged 
me  to  allow  him  to  see  my  little  collection  at  his  leisure. 
You  have  never  seen  my  pictures  and  curiosities ;  come  and 
see  them,"  he  continued,  looking  at  his  relatives.  "  You  can 
come  simply  as  two  ladies,  brought  by  my  friend  Schmucke, 
and  make  Monsieur  Brunner's  acquaintance  without  betraying 
yourselves.     Frederic  need  not  in  the  least  know  who  you  are. " 

"  Admirable  !  "  cried  the  president. 

The  attention  they  paid  to  the  once  scorned  parasite  may 
be  left  to  the  imagination  !  Poor  Pons  that  day  became 
the  presidente's  cousin.  The  happy  mother  drowned  her  dis- 
like in  floods  of  joy ;  her  looks,  her  smiles,  her  words  sent 


174  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

the  old  man  into  ecstasies  over  the  good  that  he  had  done, 
over  the  future  that  he  saw  by  glimpses.  Was  he  not  sure  to 
find  dinners  such  as  yesterday's  banquet  over  the  signing  of 
the  contract,  multiplied  indefinitely  by  three,  in  the  houses 
of  Brunner,  Schwab,  and  Graff?  He  saw  before  him  a  land 
of  plenty — a  vie  de  cocagne*  a  miraculous  succession  oi  plats 
converts,  or  delicate  surprise  dishes,  and  of  exquisite  wines. 

"If  Cousin  Pons  brings  this  through,"  said  the  president, 
addressing  his  wife  after  Pons  had  departed,  "we  ought  to 
settle  an  income  upon  him  equal  to  his  salary  at  the  theatre." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  lady;  and  Cecile  was  informed  that, 
if  the  proposed  suitor  found  favor  in  her  eyes,  she  must  under- 
take to  induce  the  old  musician  to  accept  a  munificence  in 
such  bad  taste. 

Next  day  the  president  went  to  Berthier.  He  was  anxious 
to  make  sure  of  M.  Frederic  Brunner's  financial  position, 
Berthier,  forewarned  by  Mme.  de  Marville,  had  asked  his  new 
client  Schwab  to  come.  Schwab  the  banker  was  dazzled  by 
the  prospect  of  such  a  match  for  his  friend  (everybody  knows 
how  deeply  a  German  venerates  social  distinctions,  so  much 
so,  that  in  Germany  a  wife  takes  her  husband's  (official)  title, 
and  is  the  Frau  General,  the  Frau  Rath,  and  so  forth) — Schwab 
therefore  was  as  accommodating  as  a  collector  who  imagines 
that  he  is  cheating  a  dealer. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Cecile's  father,  "as  I  shall  make 
over  my  estate  of  Marville  to  my  daughter,  I  should  wish  the 
contract  to  be  drawn  up  on  the  dotal  system.  In  that  case, 
Monsieur  Brunner  would  invest  a  million 'francs  in  land  to 
increase  the  estate,  and  by  settling  the  land  on  his  wife  he 
would  secure  her  and  his  children  from  any  share  in  the  lia- 
bilities of  the  bank." 

Berthier  stroked  his  chin.  "  He  is  coming  on  well,  is 
Monsieur  le  President,"  thought  lie. 

When  the  dotal  system  had  been  explained  to  Schwab,  he 

*  A  life  of  plenty. 


COUSIN  PONS.  175 

seemed  much  inclined  that  way  for  his  friend.  He  had  heard 
Fritz  say  that  he  wished  to  find  some  way  of  insuring  himself 
against  another  lapse  into  poverty. 

"There  is  a  farm  and  pasture-land  worth  twelve  hundred 
thousand  francs  in  the  market  at  this  moment,"  remarked  the 
president. 

"  If  we  take  up  shares  in  the  Bank  of  France  to  the  amount 
of  a  million  francs,  that  will  be  quite  enough  to  guarantee  our 
account,"  said  Schwab.  "Fritz  does  not  want  to  invest  more 
than  two  million  francs  in  business;  he  will  do  as  you  wish, 
I  am  sure.  Monsieur  le  President." 

The  president's  wife  and  daughter  were  almost  wild  with 
joy  when  he  brought  home  this  news.  Never,  surely,  did  so 
rich  a  capture  swim  so  complacently  into  the  nets  of  mat- 
rimony. 

"You  will  be  Madame  Brunner  de  Marville,"  said  the 
parent,  addressing  his  child;  "I  will  obtain  permission  for 
your  husband  to  add  the  name  to  his,  and  afterward  he  can 
take  out  letters  of  naturalization.  If  I  should  be  a  peer  of 
France  some  day,  he  will  succeed  me  !  " 

The  five  days  were  spent  by  Mme.  de  Marville  in  prepara- 
tions. On  the  great  day  she  dressed  Cecile  herself,  taking  as 
much  pains  as  the  admiral  of  the  British  fleet  takes  over  the 
dressing  of  the  pleasure  yacht  for  Her  Majesty  of  England 
when  she  takes  a  trip  to  Germany. 

Pons  and  Schwab,  on  their  side,  cleaned,  swept,  and  dusted 
Pons'  museum  rooms  and  furniture  with  the  agility  of  sailors 
cleaning  down  a  man-of-war.  There  was  not  a  speck  of  dust 
on  the  carved  wood ;  not  an  inch  of  brass  but  it  glistened. 
The  glasses  over  the  pastels  obscured  nothing  of  the  work  of 
Latour,  Greuze,  and  Liotard  (illustrious  painter  of  The  Choc- 
olate Girl),  miracles  of  an  art,  alas  !  so  fugitive.  The  inimi- 
table lustre  of  Florentine  bronze  took  all  the  varying  hues  of 
the  light  ;  the  painted  glass  glowed  with  color.  Every  line 
shone  out  brilliantly,  every  object  threw  in   its  phrase  in  a 


176  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

harmony  Oi  masterpieces  arranged  by  two  musicians — both  of 
whom  alike  had  attained  to  be  poets. 

With  a  tact  which  avoided  the  difficulties  of  a  late  appear- 
ance on  the  scene  of  action,  the  women  were  the  first  to 
arrive  ;  they  wished  to  be  upon  their  own  ground.  Pons  in- 
troduced his  friend  Schmucke,  who  seemed  to  his  fair  visitors 
to  be  an  idiot ;  their  heads  were  so  full  of  the  eligible  gentle- 
man with  the  four  millions  of  francs,  that  they  paid  but  little 
attention  to  the  worthy  Pons'  dissertations  upon  matters  of 
which  they  were  completely  ignorant. 

They  looked  with  indifferent  eyes  at  Petitot's  enamels, 
spaced  over  crimson  velvet,  set  in  three  frames  of  marvelous 
workmanship.  Flowers  by  Van  Huysum,  David,  and  Heim ; 
butterflies  painted  by  Abraham  Mignon ;  Van  Eycks,  un- 
doubted Cranachs  and  Albrecht  Diirers  ;  the  Giorgione,  the 
Sebastian  del  Piombo  ;  Backhuijzen,  Hobbema,  Gericault,  the 
rarities  of  painting — none  of  these  things  so  much  as  aroused 
their  curiosity ;  they  were  waiting  for  the  sun  to  arise  and 
shine  upon  these  treasures.  Still,  they  were  surprised  by  the 
beauty  of  some  of  the  Etruscan  trinkets  and  the  solid  value  of 
the  snuff-boxes,  and  out  of  politeness  they  went  into  ecstasies 
over  some  Florentine  bronzes  which  they  held  in  their  hands 
when  Mme.  Cibot  announced  M.  Brunner !  They  did  not 
turn  ;  they  took  advantage  of  a  superb  Venetian  mirror  framed 
in  huge  masses  of  carved  ebony  to  scan  this  phoenix  of  eligible 
young  men. 

Frederic,  forewarned  by  Wilhelm,  had  made  the  most  of 
the  little  hair  that  remained  to  him.  He. wore  a  neat  pair  of 
trousers,  a  soft  shade  of  some  dark  color ;  a  silk  vest  of  super- 
lative elegance  and  the  very  newest  cut ;  a  shirt  with  open- 
work, its  linen  hand-woven  by  a  Friesland  woman  ;  and  a  blue- 
and-white  cravat.  His  watch-chain,  like  the  head  of  his  cane, 
came  from  Messrs.  Florent  and  Chanor;  and  the  coat,  cut  by 
old  Graff  himself,  was  of  the  very  finest  cloth.  The  Suede 
gloves  proclaimed  the  man  who  had  run  through  his  mother's 


COUSIN  PONS.  Yll 

fortune.  You  could  have  seen  the  banker's  neat  little  brougham 
and  pair  of  horses  mirrored  in  the  surface  of  his  speckless  var- 
nished boots,  even  if  two  pairs  of  sharp  ears  had  not  already 
caught  the  sound  of  the  wheels  outside  in  the  Rue  de  Nor- 
niandie. 

When  the  prodigal  of  twenty  years  is  a  kind  of  chrysalis 
from  which  a  banker  emerges  at  the  age  of  forty,  the  said 
banker  is  usually  an  observer  of  human  nature ;  and  so  much 
the  more  shrewd  if,  as  in  Brunner's  case,  he  understands  how 
to  turn  his  German  simplicity  to  good  account.  He  had 
assumed  for  the  occasion  the  abstracted  air  of  a  man  who  is 
hesitating  between  family  life  and  the  dissipations  of  bachelor- 
hood. This  expression  in  a  PVenchified  German  seemed  to 
Cecile  to  be  in  the  highest  degree  romantic;  the  descendant 
of  the  Virlaz  was  a  second  Werther  in  her  eyes — where  is  the 
girl  who  will  not  allow  herself  to  weave  a  little  novel  about 
her  marriage  ?  Cecile  thought  herself  the  happiest  of  women 
when  Brunner,  looking  round  at  the  magnificent  works  of  art 
so  patiently  collected  during  forty  years,  waxed  enthusiastic, 
and  Pons,  to  his  no  small  satisfaction,  found  an  appreciative 
admirer  of  his  treasures  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"  He  is  poetical,"  the  young  lady  said  to  herself;  "  he  sees 
millions  in  the  things.  A  poet  is  a  man  that  cannot  count 
and  leaves  his  wife  to  looh  after  his  money — an  easy  man  to 
manage  and  amuse  with  trifles." 

Every  pane  in  the  two  windows  was  a  square  of  Swiss 
painted  glass  ;  the  least  of  them  was  worth  a  thousand  francs  ; 
and  Pons  possessed  sixteen  of  these  unrivaled  works  of  art 
for  which  amateurs  seek  so  eagerly  nowadays.  In  1815  the 
panes  could  be  bought  for  six  or  ten  francs  apiece.  The  value 
of  the  glorious  collection  of  pictures,  flawless  great  works, 
authentic,  untouched  since  they  left  the  master's  hands,  could 
only  be  proved  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  a  salesroom.  Not  a 
picture  but  was  set  in  a  costly  frame ;  there  were  frames  of 
every  kind — Venetians,  carved  with  heavy  ornaments,  like 
12 


178  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

English  plate  of  the  present  day ;  Romans,  distinguishable 
among  the  others  for  a  certain  dash  that  artists  call  flafla ; 
Spanish  wreaths  in  bold  relief;  Flemings  and  Germans  with 
quaint  figures,  tortoise-shell  frames  inlaid  with  copper  and 
brass  and  mother-of-pearl  and  ivory ;  frames  of  ebony  and 
boxwood  in  the  styles  of  Louis  Treize,  Louis  Quatorze,  Louis 
Quinze,  and  Louis  Seize — in  short,  it  was  a  unique  collection 
of  the  finest  models.  Pons,  luckier  than  the  art  museums  of 
Dresden  and  Vienna,  possessed  a  frame  by  the  famous  Brus- 
toloni — the  Michael  Angelo  of  wood-carvers. 

Mile,  de  Marville  naturally  asked  for  explanations  of  each 
new  curiosity,  and  was  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  art  by 
Brunner.  Her  exclamations  were  so  childish,  she  seemed  so 
pleased  to  have  the  value  and  beauty  of  the  paintings,  carv- 
ings, or  bronzes  pointed  out  to  her,  that  the  German  grad- 
ually thawed  and  looked  quite  young  again,  and  both  were 
led  on  further  than  they  intended  at  this  (purely  accidental) 
first  meeting. 

The  private  view  lasted  for  three  hours.  Brunner  offered 
his  arm  when  Cecile  went  downstairs.  As  they  descended 
slowly  and  discreetly,  Cecile,  still  talking  fine  art,  wondered 
that  M.  Brunner  should  admire  her  cousin's  gimcracks  so 
much. 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  these  things  that  we  have  just 
seen  are  worth  a  great  deal  of  money  ?  " 

"  Mademoiselle,  if  your  cousin  would  sell  his  collection,  I 
would  give  eight  hundred  thousand  francs  for  it  this  evening, 
and  I  should  not  make  a  bad  bargain.  "  The  pictures  alone 
would  fetch  more  than  that  at  a  public  sale." 

"Since  you  say  so,  I  believe  it,"  returned  she;  "the  things 
took  up  so  much  of  your  attention  that  it  must  be  so." 

"Oh!  mademoiselle!"  protested  Brunner.  "  For  all  an- 
swer to  your  reproach,  I  will  ask  your  mother's  permission  to 
call,  so  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again." 

5' flo^y  clever  she  is,  that  'little  girl'  of  mine  !  "  thought 


COUSIN  PONS.  179 

the  presidente,  following  closely  upon  her  daughter's  heels. 
Aloud  she  said,  "  With  the  greatest  pleasure,  monsieur.  I 
hope  that  you  will  come  at  dinner-time  with  our  Cousin  Pons. 
The  president  will  be  delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
Thank  you,  cousin." 

The  lady  squeezed  Pons'  arm  with  deep  meaning ;  she 
could  not  have  said  more  if  she  had  used  the  consecrated 
formula:  "Let  us  swear  an  eternal  friendship."  The  glance 
which  accompanied  that  "Thank  you,  cousin,"  was  a  caress. 

When  the  young  lady  had  been  put  into  the  carriage,  and 
the  hired  carriage  had  disappeared  down  the  Rue  Chariot, 
Brunner  talked  bric-a-brac  to  Pons,  and  Pons  talked  marriage. 

"  Then  you  see  no  obstacle  ?  "  said  Pons. 

"Oh  !  "  said  Brunner,  "she  is  an  insignificant  little  thing, 
and  the  mother  is  a  trifle  prim.     We  shall  see." 

"A  handsome  fortune  one  of  these  days.  More  than  a 
million " 

"  Good-by  till  Monday  !  "  interrupted  the  millionaire.  "  If 
you  should  care  to  sell  your  collection  of  pictures,  I  would 
give  you  five  or  six  hundred  thousand  francs " 

"Ah!"  said  Pons;  he  had  no  idea  that  he  was  so  rich. 
"But  they  are  my  great  pleasure  in  life,  and  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  part  with  them.  I  could  only  sell  my  col- 
lection to  be  delivered  after  my  death." 

"Very  well.     We  shall  see." 

"Here  we  have  two  affairs  afoot,"  said  Pons;  he  was 
thinking  only  of  the  marriage. 

Brunner  shook  hands  and  drove  away  in  his  splendid  car- 
riage. Pons  watched  it  out  of  sight.  He  did  not  notice  that 
Remonencq  was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  doorway. 

That  evening  Mme.  de  Marville  went  to  ask  advice  of  her 
father-in-law,  and  found  the  whole  Popinot  family  at  the 
Camusots'  house.  It  was  only  natural  that  a  mother  who  had 
failed  to  capture  an  eldest  son  should  be  tempted  to  take  her 
little  revenge ;   so  Mme.  de  Marville  threw  out  hints  of  the 


ISO  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

splendid  marriage  that  her  Cecile  was  about  to  make.  "  Whom 
can  Cecile  be  going  to  marry?"  was  the  question  upon  all 
lips.  And  Cecile's  mother,  without  suspecting  that  she  was 
betraying  the  secret,  let  fall  words  and  whispered  confidences, 
afterward  supplemented  by  Madame  Berthier,  till  gossip  cir- 
culating in  the  bourgeois  empyrean  where  Pons  accomplished 
his  gastronomical  evolutions  took  something  like  the  following 
form  : 

"Cecile  de  Marville  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  young 
German,  a  banker  from  philanthropic  motives,  for  he  has  four 
millions ;  he  is  like  a  hero  of  a  novel,  a  perfect  Werther, 
charming  and  kind-hearted.  He  has  sown  his  wild  oats,  and 
he  is  distractedly  in  love  with  Cecile ;  it  is  a  case  of  love  at 
first  sight ;  and  so  much  the  more  certain,  since  Cecile  had 
all  Pons'  paintings  of  Madonnas  for  rivals,"  and  so  forth  and 
so  forth. 

Two  or  three  of  the  set  came  to  call  on  the  presidente,  os- 
tensibly to  congratulate,  but  really  to  find  out  whether  or  not 
the  marvelous  tale  were  true.  For  their  benefit  Mme.  de 
Marville  executed  the  following  admirable  variations  on  the 
theme  of  son-in-law  which  mothers  may  consult,  as  people 
used  to  refer  to  the  "  Complete  Letter  Writer." 

"A  marriage  is  not  an  accomplished  fact,"  she  told  Mme. 
Chiffreville,  "  until  you  have  been  to  the  mayor's  office  and 
the  church.  We  have  only  come  as  far  as  a  personal  inter- 
view ;  so  I  count  upon  your  friendship  to  say  nothing  of  our 
hopes." 

''  You  are  very  fortunate,  madame  ;  marriages  are  so  diffi- 
cult to  arrange  in  these  days." 

''What  can  one  do?  It  was  chance;  but  marriages  are 
often  made  in  that  way." 

"Ah!  well.  So  you  are  going  to  marry  Cecile?"  said 
Mme.   Cardot. 

"Yes,"  said  Cecile's  mother,  fully  understanding  the  mean- 
ing of  the  "so."     "  We  were  very  particular,  or  Cecile  would 


COUSIN  PONS.  181 

have  been  established  before  this.  But  now  we  have  found 
everything  that  we  wish  :  money,  good  temper,  gocd  char- 
acter, and  good  looks  ;  and  my  sweet  little  girl  certainly  de- 
serves nothing  less.  Monsieur  Brunner  is  a  charming  young 
man,  most  distinguished  ;  lie  is  fond  of  luxury,  he  knows  life  ; 
he  is  wild  about  Cecile,  he  loves  her  sincerely  ;  and,  in  spite 
of  his  three  or  four  millions,  Cecile  is  going  to  accept  him. 
We  had  not  looked  so  high  for  her  ;  still,  as  the  saying  goes, 
'store  is  no  sore.'  " 

"It  was  not  so  much  the  fortune  as  the  affection  inspired 
by  my  daughter  which  decided  us,"  the  presidente  told  Mme. 
Lebas.  "  Monsieur  Brunner  is  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  wants 
the  marriage  to  take  place  with  the  least  possible  delay." 

"  Is  he  a  foreigner?  " 

"Yes,  madame  ;  but  I  am  very  fortunate,  I  confess.  No, 
I  shall  not  have  a  son-in-law  in  him,  but  a  son.  Monsieur 
Brunner's  delicacy  has  quite  won  our  hearts.  No  one  would 
imagine  how  anxious  he  was  to  marry  under  the  dotal  system. 
It  is  a  great  security  for  families.  He  is  going  to  invest  twelve 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  grazing  land,  which  will  be  added 
to  Marville  some  day." 

More  variations  followed  on  the  morrow.  For  instance — 
M.  Brunner  was  a  great  lord,  doing  everything  in  lordly 
fashion  ;  he  did  not  haggle.  If  M.  de  Marville  could  obtain 
letters  of  naturalization,  qualifying  M.  Brunner  for  an  office 
under  Government  (and  the  home  secretary  surely  could  strain 
a  point  for  M.  de  Marville),  his  son-in-law  would  be  a  peer 
of  France.  Nobody  knew  how  much  money  M.  Brunner  pos- 
sessed :  "  he  had  the  finest  horses  and  the  smartest  carriages 
in  Paris  !  "  and  so  on  and  so  forth. 

From  the  pleasure  with  which  the  Camusots  published  their 
hopes,  it  was  pretty  clear  that  this  triumph  was  unexpected. 

Immediately  after  the  interview  in  Pons'  museum,  M.  de 
Marville,  at  his  wife's  instance,  begged  the  home  secretary, 
his  chief,  and  the  attorney  for  the  crown  to  dine  with  him  on 


182  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

the  occasion  of  the  introduction  of  this  phoenix  of  a  son-in- 
law. 

The  three  great  personages  accepted  the  invitation,  albeit 
it  was  given  on  short  notice  ;  they  all  saw  the  part  that  they 
were  to  play  in  the  family  politics,  and  readily  came  to  the 
father's  support.  In  France  we  are  usually  pretty  ready  to 
assist  the  mother  of  marriageable  daughters  to  hook  an  eligible 
son-in-law.  The  Count  and  Countess  Popinot  likewise  lent 
their  presence  to  complete  the  splendor  of  the  occasion,  al- 
though they  thought  the  invitation  in  questionable  taste. 

There  were  eleven  in  all.  Cecile's  grandfather,  old  Camu- 
sot,  came,  of  course,  with  his  wife  to  a  family  reunion  pur- 
posely arranged  to  elicit  a  proposal  from  M.  Brunner. 

The  Camusot  de  Marvilles  had  given  out  that  the  guest  of 
the  evening  was  one  of  the  richest  capitalists  in  Germany,  a 
man  of  taste  (he  was  in  love  with  "  the  little  girl  "),  a  future 
rival  of  the  Nucingens,  Kellers,  du  Tillets,  and  their  like. 

"It  is  our  day,"  said  the  presidente  with  elaborate  sim- 
plicity, when  she  had  named  her  guests  one  by  one  for  the 
German  whom  she  already  regarded  as  her  son-in-law.  "We 
have  only  a  few  intimate  friends — first,  my  husband's  father, 
who,  as  you  know,  is  sure  to  be  raised  to  the  peerage  ;  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  and  Madame  la  Comtesse  Popinot,  whose  son 
was  not  thought  rich  enough  for  Cecile  ;  the  home  secretary ; 
our  first  president  ;  our  attorney  for  the  crown  ;  our  personal 
friends,  in  short.  We  shall  be  obliged  to  dine  rather  late  to- 
night, because  the  Chamber  is  sitting,  and  people  cannot  get 
away  before  six." 

Brunner  looked  significantly  at  Pons,  and  Cousin  Pons 
rubbed  his  hands  as  who  should  say:  "  Our  friends,  you  see  ! 
My  friends  !  ' ' 

Mme.  de  Marville,  as  a  clever  tactician,  had  something  very 
particular  to  say  to  her  cousin,  that  Cecile  and  her  Werther 
might  be  left  together  for  a  moment.  Cecile  chattered  away 
volubly,  and  contrived  that  Fr6d6ric  should  catch  sight  of  a 


COUSIN  PONS.  183 

German  dictionary,  a  German  grammar,  and  a  volume  of 
Goethe  hidden  away  in  a  place  where  he  was  likely  to  find 
them. 

"Ah!  are  you  learning  German?"  asked  Brunner,  flush- 
ing red. 

(For  laying  traps  of  this  kind  the  Frenchwoman  has  not  her 
match  !) 

"  Oh  !  how  naughty  you  are  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  it  is  too  bad 
of  you,  monsieur,  to  explore  my  hiding-places  like  this.  I 
want  to  read  Goethe  in  the  original,"  she  added  ;  "I  have 
been  learning  German  for  two  years." 

"Then   the  grammar  must  be  very  difficult  to  learn,  for 

scarcely  ten  pages  have  been  cut "  Brunner  remarked  with 

much  candor. 

Cecile,  abashed,  turned  away  to  hide  her  blushes.  A  Ger- 
man cannot  resist  a  display  of  this  kind  ;  Brunner  caught 
Cecile's  hand,  made  her  turn,  and  watched  her  confusion 
under  his  gaze,  after  the  manner  of  the  heroes  of  the  novels 
of  Auguste  La  Fontaine  of  chaste  memory. 

"You  are  adorable,"  said  he. 

Cecile's  petulant  gestures  replied  :  "So  are  you — who  could 
help  liking  you  ?" 

"  It  is  all  right,  mamma,"  she  whispered  to  her  parent,  who 
came  up  at  that  moment  with  Pons. 

The  sight  of  a  family  party  on  these  occasions  is  not  to  be 
described.  Everybody  was  well  satisfied  to  see  a  mother  put 
her  hand  on  an  eligible  son-in-law.  Compliments,  double- 
barreled  and  double-charged,  were  paid  to  Brunner  (who  pre- 
tended to  understand  nothing)  ;  to  Cecile,  on  whom  nothing 
was  lost ;  and  to  the  president,  who  fished  for  them.  Pons 
heard  the  blood  singing  in  his  ears,  the  light  of  all  the  blazing 
gas-jets  of  the  theatre  footlights  seemed  to  be  dazzling  his 
eyes,  when  Cecile,  in  a  low  voice  and  with  the  most  ingenious 
circumspection,  spoke  of  her  father's  plan  of  the  annuity  of 
twelve  hundred   francs.     The  old  artist    positively  declined 


184  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

the  offer,  bringing  forward  the  value  of  his  fortune  in  furni- 
ture, only  now  made  known  to  him  by  Brunner. 

The  home  secretary,  the  first  president,  the  attorney  for  the 
crown,  the  Popinots,  and  those  who  had  other  engagements, 
all  went ;  and  before  long  no  one  was  left  except  M.  Camusot 
senior,  and  Cardot  the  old  notary,  and  his  assistant  and  son- 
in-law  Berthier.  Pons,  worthy  soul,  looking  around  and  see- 
ing no  one  but  the  family,  blundered  out  a  speech  of  thanks 
to  the  president  and  his  wife  for  the  proposal  which  Cecile 
had  just  made  to  him.  So  is  it  with  those  who  are  guided  by 
their  feelings  ;  they  act  upon  impulse.  Brunner,  hearing  of 
an  annuity  offered  in  this  way,  thought  that  it  had  very  much 
the  look  of  commission  paid  to  Pons  ;  he  made  an  Israelite's 
return  upon  himself,  his  attitude  told  of  more  than  cool  calcu- 
lation. 

Meanwhile  Pons  was  saying  to  his  astonished  relations, 
"  My  collection  or  its  value  will,  in  any  case,  go  to  your 
family,  whether  I  come  to  terms  with  our  friend  Brunner  or 
keep  it."  The  Camusots  were  amazed  to  hear  that  Pons  was 
so  rich, 

Brunner,  watching,  saw  how  all  these  ignorant  people 
looked  favorably  upon  a  man  once  believed  to  be  poor  so  soon 
as  they  knew  that  he  had  great  possessions.  He  had  seen, 
too,  already,  that  Cecile  was  spoiled  by  her  father  and  mother  ; 
he  amused  himself,  therefore,  by  astonishing  the  good  bour- 
geois. 

"I  was  telling  mademoiselle,"  said  he.  "that  Monsieur 
Pons'  pictures  were  worth  that  sum  to  v:t ;  but  the  prices  of 
works  of  art  have  risen  so  much  of  late,  that  no  one  can  tell 
how  much  the  collection  might  sell  for  at  a  public  auction. 
The  sixty  pictures  might  fetch  a  million  francs;  several  that 
I  saw  the  other  day  were  worth  fifty  thousand  apiece." 

"  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  your  heir  !  "  remarked  old  Cardot, 
looking  at  Pons. 

"  My  heir  is  my  Cousin  Cecile  here,"  answered  Pons,  insist- 


COUSIN  PONS.  185 

ing  on  the  relationship.     There  was  a  flutter  of  admiration  at 
this. 

"  She  will  be  a  very  rich  heiress,"  laughed  old  Cardot  as  he 
took  his  departure. 

Camusot  senior,  the  president  and  his  wife,  Cecile,  Brun- 
ner.  Earthier,  and  Pons  were  now  left  together ;  for  it  was 
assumed  that  the  formal  demand  for  Cecile's  hand  was  about 
to  be  made.  No  sooner  was  Cardot  gone,  indeed,  than  Brun- 
ner  began  with  an  inquiry  which  augured  well. 

"I  think  I  understood,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mme.  de  Mar- 
ville,  "that  mademoiselle  is  your  only  daughter." 

"  Certainly,"  the  lady  said  proudly. 

"  Nobody  will  make  any  difficulties,"  Pons,  good  soul,  put 
in  by  way  of  encouraging  the  backward  Brunner  to  bring  out 
his  proposal. 

But  Brunner  grew  thoughtful,  and  an  ominous  silence 
brouglit  on  a  coolness  of  the  strangest  kind.  The  presidente 
might  have  admitted  that  her  "little  girl"  was  subject  to 
epileptic  fits.  The  president,  thinking  that  Cecile  ought  not 
to  be  present,  signed  to  her  to  go.  She  went.  Still  Brun- 
ner said  nothing.  They  all  began  to  look  at  one  another. 
The  situation  was  growing  awkward. 

Camusot  senior,  a  man  of  experience,  took  the  German  to 
Mme.  de  Marville's  room,  ostensibly  to  show  him  Pons'  fan. 
He  saw  that  some  difficulty  had  arisen,  and  signed  to  the  rest 
to  leave  him  alone  with  Cecile's  suitor-designate. 

"Here  is  the  masterpiece,"  said  Camusot,  opening  out 
the  fan. 

Brunner  took  it  in  his  hand  and  looked  at  it.  "It  is  worth 
five  thousand  francs,"  he  said  after  a  moment. 

"Did  you  not  come  here,  sir,  to  ask  for  my  granddaughter?" 
inquired  the  future  peer  of  France. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Brunner;  "and  I  beg  you  to  believe  that 
no  possible  marriage  could  be  more  flattering  to  my  vanity. 
I  shall  never  find  any  one  more  charming  nor  more  amiable 


186  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

nor  a  young  lady  who  answers  to  my  ideas  like  Mademoiselle 
Cecile  ;  but " 

"Oh,  no  buts .''"  old  Camusot  broke  in;  "or  let  us  have 
the  translation  of  your  '  buts '  at  once,  my  dear  sir.  It  is 
due  us." 

"I  am  very  glad,  sir,  that  the  matter  has  gone  no  further 
on  either  side,"  Brunner  answered  gravely.  "I  had  no  idea 
that  Mademoiselle  Cecile  was  an  only  daughter.  Anybody 
else  would  consider  this  an  advantage ;  but  to  me,  believe  me, 
it  is  an  insurmountable  obstacle  to " 

"What,  sir!"  cried  Camusot,  amazed  beyond  measure. 
"  Do  you  find  a  positive  drawback  in  an  immense  advantage? 
Your  conduct  is  really  extraordinary  \  I  should  very  much  like 
to  hear  the  explanation  of  it." 

"  I  came  here  this  evening,  sir,"  returned  the  German 
phlegmatically,  "intending  to  ask  Monsieur  le  President  for 
his  daughter's  hand.  It  was  my  desire  to  give  Mademoiselle 
Cecile  a  brilliant  future  by  offering  her  so  much  of  my  fortune 
as  she  would  consent  to  accept.  But  an  only  daughter  is  a 
child  whose  will  is  law  to  indulgent  parents,  who  has  never 
been  contradicted.  I  have  had  the  opportunity  of  observing 
this  in  many  families,  where  parents  worship  divinities  of  this 
kind.     And  your  granddaughter  is  not  only  the  idol  of  the 

house,  but  Madame  la  Presidente you  know  what  I  mean. 

I  have  seen  my  own  father's  house  turned  into  a  hell,  sir,  from 
this  very  cause.  My  stepmother,  the  source  of  all  my  misfor- 
tunes, an  only  daughter,  idolized  by  her  parents,  the  most 
charming  betrothed  imaginable,  after  marriage  became  a  fiend 
incarnate.  I  do  not  doubt  that  Mademoiselle  Cecile  is  an 
exception  to  the  rule  ;  but  I  am  not  a  young  man,  I  am  forty 
years  old,  and  tlie  difference  between  our  ages  entails  diffi- 
culties which  would  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  make  the  young 
lady  happy,  when  Madame  la  Presidente  has  always  carried 
out  her  daughter's  every  wish  and  listened  to  her  as  if  made- 
moiselle was  an  oracle.     What  right  have  I  to  expect  Made- 


COUSIN  PONS.  187 

moiselle  Cecile  to  chai'ge  her  habits  and  ideas?  Instead  of 
a  father  and  mother  who  indulge  her  every  whim,  she  would 
find  an  egoistic  man  of  forty;  if  she  should  resist,  the  man  of 
forty  would  have  the  worst  of  it.  So,  as  an  honest  man — I 
withdraw.  If  there  should  be  any  need  to  explain  my  visit 
here,  I  desire  to  be  entirely  sacrificed " 

"If  these  are  your  motives,  sir,"  said  the  future  peer  of 
France,  "however  singular  they  may  be,  they  are  plausible, 
they " 

"Do  not  call  my  sincerity  in  question,  sir,"  Brunner  inter- 
rupted quickly.  "If  you  know  of  a  penniless  girl,  one  of  a 
large  family,  well  brought  up  but  without  fortune,  as  happens 
very  often  in  France ;  and  if  her  character  offers  me  security, 
I  will  marry  her." 

A  pause  followed  ;  Frederic  Brunner  left  Cecile's  grand- 
father and  politely  took  leave  of  his  host  and  hostess.  When 
he  was  gone,  Cecile  appeared,  a  living  commentary  upon  her 
Werther's  leave-taking  ;  she  was  ghastly  pale.  She  had  hidden 
herself  in  her  mother's  wardrobe  and  overheard  the  whole 
conversation. 

"  Refused  ! "  she  said  in  a  low  voice  for  her  mother's 

ear. 

"And  why?"  asked  the  presidente,  fixing  her  eyes  upon 
her  embarrassed  father-in-law. 

"Upon  the  fine  pretext  that  an  only  daughter  is  a  spoilt 
child,"  replied  that  gentleman.  "And  he  is  not  altogether 
wrong  there,"  he  added,  seizing  an  opportunity  of  putting  the 
blame  on  the  daughter-in-law,  who  had  worried  him  not  a 
little  for  twenty  years. 

"  It  will  kill  my  child  !  "  cried  the  presidente,  "and  it  is 
your  doing!"  she  exclaimed,  addressing  Pons,  as  she  sup- 
ported her  fainting  daughter,  for  Cecile  thought  well  to  make 
good  her  mother's  words  by  sinking  into  her  arms.  The 
president  and  his  wife  carried  Cecile  to  an  easy-chair,  where 
she  swooned  outright.     The  grandfather  rang  for  the  servants. 


]88  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

"It  is  a  plot  of  his  weaving;  I  see  it  all  now,"  said  the 
infuriated  mother. 

Pons  sprang  up  as  if  the  trump  of  doom  were  sounding  in 
his  ears. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  lady,  her  eyes  like  two  springs  of  green 
bile,  "  this  gentleman  wished  to  repay  a  harmless  joke  by  an 
insult.  Who  will  believe  that  that  German  was  right  in  his 
mind?  He  is  either  an  accomplice  in  a  wicked  scheme  of 
revenge,  or  he  is  crazy.  I  hope,  Monsieur  Pons,  that  in  future 
you  will  spare  us  the  annoyance  of  seeing  you  in  the  house 
where  you  have  tried  to  bring  shame  and  dishonor." 

Pons  stood  like  a  statue,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet. 

"  Well !  Are  you  still  here,  monster  of  ingratitude?  "  cried 
she,  turning  round  on  Pons,  who  was  twirling  his  thumbs. 
"Your  master  and  I  are  never  at  home,  remember,  if  this 
gentleman  calls,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  servants. 
"Jean,  go  for  the  doctor;  and  bring  hartshorn,  Madeleine." 

In  the  presidente's  eyes,  the  reason  given  by  Brunner  was 
simply  an  excuse,  there  was  something  else  behind;  but,  at 
the  same  time,  the  fact  that  the  marriage  was  broken  off  was 
only  the  more  certain.  A  woman's  mind  works  swiftly  in 
great  crises,  and  Mme.  de  Marville  had  hit  at  once  upon  the 
one  method  of  repairing  the  check.  She  chose  to  look  upon 
it  as  a  scheme  of  revenge.  This  notion  of  ascribing  a  fiendish 
scheme  to  Pons  satisfied  family  honor.  Faithful  to  her  dis- 
like of  the  cousin,  she  treated  a  feminine  suspicion  as  a  fact. 
Women,  generally  speaking,  hold  a  creed'  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, a  code  of  their  own  ;  to  them  anything  which  serves 
their  interests  or  their  passions  is  true.  So  also  their  vain 
imaginings  of  implied  insult  to  themselves  by  others,  although 
quite  unfounded,  becomes  to  them  a  truth.  The  presidente 
went  a  good  deal  further.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  she 
talked  the  president  into  her  belief,  and  next  morning  found 
the  magistrate  convinced  of  his  cousin's  culpability. 


COUSIN  PONS.  189 

Every  one,  no  doubt,  will  condemn  the  lady's  horrible  con- 
duct ;  but  what  mother  la  Mme.  Camusot's  position  will  not 
do  the  same?  Put  the  choice  between  her  own  daughter  and 
an  alien,  she  will  prefer  to  sacrifice  the  honor  of  the  latter. 
There  are  many  ways  of  doing  this,  but  the  end  in  view  is  tiie 
same. 

The  old  musician  fled  down  the  staircase  in  haste ;  but  he 
went  slowly  along  the  boulevards  to  his  theatre,  he  turned  in 
mechanically  at  the  door,  and  mechanically  he  took  his  place 
and  conducted  the  orchestra.  In  the  interval  he  gave  such 
random  answers  to  Schmucke's  questions,  that  his  old  friend 
dissembled  his  fear  that  Pons'  mind  had  given  way.  To  so 
childlike  a  nature,  the  recent  scene  took  the  proportions  of  a 
catastrophe.  He  had  meant  to  make  every  one  happy,  and 
he  had  aroused  a  terrible  slumbering  feeling  of  hate ;  every- 
thing had  been  turned  topsy-turvy.  He  had  at  last  seen  mortal 
hate  in  the  presidente's  eyes,  tones,  and  gestures. 

On  the  morrow,  Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  made  a  great 
resolution  ;  the  president  likewise  sanctioned  the  step  now 
forced  upon  them  by  circumstances.  It  was  determined  that 
the  estate  of  Marville  should  be  settled  upon  Cecile  at  the 
time  of  her  marriage,  as  well  as  the  house  in  the  Rue  de 
Hanovre  and  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  In  the  course  of 
the  morning,  the  presidente  went  to  call  upon  the  Comtesse 
Popinot ;  for  she  saw  plainly  that  nothing  but  a  settled  mar- 
riage could  enable  them  to  recover  after  such  a  check.  To 
the  Comtesse  Popinot  she  told  the  shocking  story  of  Pons' 
revenge,  Pons'  hideous  hoax.  It  all  seemed  probable  enough 
wrhen  it  came  out  that  the  marriage  had  been  broken  off  simply 
Dn  the  pretext  that  Cecile  was  an  only  daughter.  The  presi- 
dente next  dwelt  artfully  upon  the  advantage  of  adding  "  de 
Marville  "  to  the  name  of  Popinot ;  and  the  immense  dowry. 
At  the  present  price  fetched  by  land  in  Normandy,  at  tv/o  per 
cent.,  the  property  represented  nine  hundred  thousand  francs, 
and  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Hanovre  about  two  hundred  an^ 


190  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

fifty  thousand.  No  reasonable  family  could  refuse  such  an 
alliance.  The  Comte  and  Comtesse  Popinot  accepted ;  and 
as  they  were  now  touched  by  the  honor  of  the  family  which 
they  were  about  to  enter,  they  promised  to  help  explain 
away  the  yesterday  evening's  mishap. 

And  now  in  the  house  of  the  elder  Camusot,  before  the  very 
persons  who  had  heard  Mme.  de  Marville  singing  Frederic 
Brunner's  praises  but  a  few  days  ago,  that  lady,  to  whom 
nobody  ventured  to  speak  on  the  topic,  plunged  courageously 
into  explanations. 

"Really,  nowadays"  (she  said),  "one  could  not  be  too 
careful  if  a  marriage  was  in  question,  especially  if  one  had  to 
do  with  foreigners." 

"And  why,  madame  ?" 

"What  has  happened  to  you?"  asked  Mme.  Chiffreville. 

"  Do  you  not  know  about  our  adventure  with  that  Brunner, 
who  had  the  audacity  to  aspire  to  marry  Cecile  ?  His  father 
was  a  German  that  kept  a  wine-tavern,  and  his  uncle  is  a 
dealer  in  and  dryer  of  rabbit-skins  !  " 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  So  clear-sighted  as  you  are  !  "  murmured 
a  lady. 

"These  adventurers  are  so  cunning.  But  we  found  out 
everything  through  Berthier.  His  friend  is  a  beggar  that 
plays  the  flute.    He  is  friendly  with  a  person  who  lets  furnished 

lodgings  in  the  Rue  du  Mail  and  some  tailor  or  other We 

found  out  that  he  had  led  a  most  disreputable  life,  and  no 
amount  of  fortune  would  be  enough  for  a  scamp  that  has  run 
through  his  mother's  property." 

"Why,    Mademoiselle    de     Marville    would     have    been 
wretched  !  "  said  Mme.  Berthier. 

"How  did  he  come  to  your  house?"  asked  old  Mme. 
Lebas. 

"It  was  Monsieur  Pons.  Out  of  revenge,  he  introduced 
this  fine  gentleman  to  us,  to  make  us  ridiculous.  This  Brun- 
ner (it  is  the  same  name  as  Fontaine  in  French) — this  Brunner, 


COUSIN  PONS.  191 

that  was  made  out  to  be  such  a  grandee,  has  poor  enough 
health,  he  is  bald,  and  his  teeth  are  bad.  The  first  sight  of 
him  was  enough  for  me;  I  distrusted  him  from  the  first." 

"But  how  about  the  great  fortune  that  you  spoke  of?"  a 
young  married  woman  asked  shyly. 

"  The  fortune  was  not  nearly  so  large  as  they  said.  These 
tailors  and  the  landlord  and  he  all  scraped  the  money  together 
among  them,  and  put  all  their  savings  into  this  bank  that  they 
are  starting.  What  is  a  bank  for  those  that  begin  in  these 
days  ?  Simply  a  license  to  ruin  themselves.  A  banker's  wife 
may  lie  down  at  night  a  millionaire  and  wake  up  in  the  morn- 
ing with  nothing  but  her  settlement.  At  the  first  word,  at 
the  very  first  sight  of  him,  we  made  up  our  minds  about  this 
gentleman — he  is  not  one  of  us.  You  can  tell  by  his  gloves, 
by  his  vest,  that  he  is  a  workingman,  the  son  of  a  man  that 
kept  a  pot-house  somewhere  in  Germany ;  he  has  not  the  in- 
stincts of  a   gentleman;  he  drinks  beer,  and  he  smokes — 

smokes  ?  ah  !    madame,  twenty-five  pipes  a  day  .' What 

would  have  become  of  poor  Lili  ?  It  positively  makes  me 
shudder  even  now  to  think  of  it.  God  has  indeed  preserved 
us  !  And,  beside,  Cecile  never  liked  him.  Who  would  have 
expected  such  a  trick  from  a  relative,  an  old  friend  of  the 
house  that  had  dined  with  us  twice  a  week  for  twenty  years? 
We  have  loaded  him  with  benefits,  and  he  played  his  game  so 
well  that  he  said  Cecile  was  his  heir  before  the  keeper  of  the 

seals  and  the  attorney-general  and  the  home  secretary  ! 

That  Brunner  and  Monsieur  Pons  had  their  story  ready,  and 

each   of  them   said  that  the  other  was  worth  millions  ! 

No,  I  do  assure  you,  all  of  you  would  have  been  taken  in  by 
an  artist's  hoax  like  that." 

In  a  few  weeks'  time,  the  united  forces  of  the  Camusot  and 
Popinot  families  gained  an  easy  victory  in  the  world,  for  no- 
body undertook  to  defend  the  unfortunate  Pons,  that  parasite, 
that  curmudgeon,  that  skinflint,  that  smooth-faced  humbug, 
on  whom  everybody  heaped  scorn  ;  he  was  a  viper  cherished 


192  THE  FOOK   PARENTS. 

in  the  bosom  of  the  family,  he  had  not  his  match  for  spite, 
he  was  a  dangerous  mountebank  whom  nobody  ought  to 
mention. 

About  a  month  after  the  perfidious  Werther's  withdrawal, 
poor  Pons  left  his  bed  for  the  first  time  after  an  attack  of  ner- 
vous fever,  and  walked  along  the  sunny  side  of  the  street  lean- 
ing on  Schmucke's  arm.  Nobody  in  the  Boulevard  du  Temple 
laughed  at  the  "  pair  of  nutcrackers,"  for  one  of  the  old  men 
looked  so  shattered,  and  the  other  so  touchmgly  careful  of  his 
invalid  friend.  By  the  time  that  they  reached  the  Boulevard 
Poissonniere,  a  little  color  came  back  to  Pons'  face ;  he  was 
breathing  the  air  of  the  boulevards,  he  felt  the  vitalizing  power 
of  the  atmosphere  of  the  crowded  street,  the  life-giving  prop- 
erty of  the  air  that  is  noticeable  in  quarters  where  human  life 
abounds ;  in  the  filthy  Roman  Ghetto,  for  instance,  with  its 
swarming  Jewish  population,  where  malaria  is  unknown. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  sight  of  the  streets,  the  great  spectacle  of 
Paris,  the  daily  pleasure  of  his  life,  did  the  invalid  good. 
They  walked  on  side  by  side,  though  Pons  now  and  again  left 
his  friend  to  look  in  the  store  windows.  Opposite  the  Theatre 
des  Varieties  he  saw  Count  Popinot,  and  went  up  to  him  very 
respectfully,  for  of  all  men  Pons  esteemed  and  venerated  the 
ex-minister. 

The  peer  of  France  answered  him  severely — 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand,  sir,  how  you  can  have  so 
little  tact  as  to  speak  to  a  near  connection  of  a  family  whom 
you  tried  to  brand  with  shame  and  ridicule  by  a  trick  which 
no  one  but  an  artist  could  devise.  Understand  this,  sir,  that 
from  to-day  we  must  be  complete  strangers  to  each  other. 
Madame  la  Comtesse  Popinot,  like  every  one  else,  feels  indig- 
nant at  your  behavior  to  the  Marvilles." 

And  Count  Popinot  passed  on,  leaving  Pons  thunderstruck. 
Passion,  justice,  policy,  and  great  social  forces  never  take  into 
account  the  condition  of  the  human  creature  whom  they  strike 


COUSIN  PONS.  19:^, 

down.  The  statesman,  driven  by  family  considerations  to 
crush  Pons,  did  not  so  much  as  see  the  physical  weakness  of 
his  redoubtable  enemy. 

"  Vat  is  it,  mine  boor  friend  ?  "  exclaimed  Schmucke,  seeing 
how  white  Pons  had  grown. 

"It  is  a  fresh  stab  in  the  heart,"  Pons  replied,  leaning 
heavily  on  Schmucke's  arm.  "I  think  that  no  one,  save 
God  in  heaven,  can  have  any  right  to  do  good,  and  that 
is  why  all  those  who  meddle  in  His  work  are  so  cruelly  pun- 
ished." 

The  old  artist's  sarcasm  was  uttered  with  a  supreme  effort ; 
he  was  trying,  excellent  creature,  to  quiet  the  dismay  visible 
in  Schmucke's  face. 

"  So  I  dink/'  Schmucke  replied  simply. 

Pons  could  not  understand  it.  Neither  the  Camusots  nor 
the  Popinots  had  sent  him  notice  of  Cecile's  wedding. 

On  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  Pons  saw  M.  Cardot  coming 
toward  them.  Warned  by  Count  Popinot's  allocution.  Pons 
was  very  careful  not  to  accost  the  old  acquaintance  with  whom 
he  had  dined  once  a  fortnight  for  the  last  year;  he  lifted  his 
hat,  but  the  other,  mayor  and  deputy  of  Paris,  threw  him  an 
indignant  glance  and  went  by.     Pons  turned  to  Schmucke. 

"Do  go  and  ask  him  what  it  is  that  they  all  have  against 
me,"  he  said  to  the  friend  who  knew  all  the  details  of  the 
catastrophe  that  Pons  could  tell  him. 

"Mennesir,"  Schmucke  began  diplomatically,  "mine 
friend  Bons  is  chust  recofering  from  an  illness ;  you  haf  no 
doubt  fail  to  rekognise  him?  " 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"  But  mit  vat  kan  you  rebroach  him?" 

"  You  have  a  monster  of  ingratitude  for  a  friend,  sir  ;  if  he 
is  still  alive,  it  is  because  nothing  kills  ill-weeds,  which  ever 
flourish  apace.  People  do  well  to  mistrust  artists  ;  they  are  as 
mischievous  and  spiteful  as  monkeys.  This  friend  of  yours 
tried  to  dishonor  his  own  family,  and  to  blight  a  young  girl's 
13 


194  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

character,  in  revenge  for  a  harmless  joke.  I  wish  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  him  ;  I  shall  do  my  best  to  forget  that  I 
have  ever  known  him,  or  that  such  a  man  exists.  All  the 
members  of  his  family  and  my  own  share  the  wish,  sir,  so  do 
all  the  persons  who  once  did  the  said  Pons  the  great  honor  of 
receiving  him." 

**  Boot,  mennesir,  you  are  a  reasonaple  mann ;  gif  you  vill 
bermit  me,  I  shall  exblain  die  affair " 

"You  are  quite  at  liberty  to  remain  his  friend,  sir,  if  you 
are  minded  that  way,"  returned  Cardot,  "  but  you  need  go  no 
further  ;  for  I  must  give  you  warning  that  in  my  opinion  those 
who  try  to  excuse  or  defend  his  conduct  are  just  as  much  to 
blame." 

''To  chustify  it?" 

"  Yes,  for  his  conduct  can  neither  be  justified  nor  qualified." 
And  with  that  word,  the  deputy  for  the  Seine  went  his  way  ; 
he  would  not  hear  another  syllable. 

"  I  have  two  powers  in  the  State  against  me,"  smiled  poor 
Pons,  when  Schmucke  had  repeated  these  savage  speeches. 

"  Eferypody  is  against  us,"  Schmucke  answered  dolorously. 
"  Let  us  go  avay  pefore  we  shall  meet  oder  fools." 

Never  before  in  the  course  of  a  truly  simple  life  had 
Schmucke  uttered  such  words  as  these.  Never  before  had  his 
almost  divine  meekness  been  ruffled.  He  had  smiled  child- 
like on  all  the  mischances  that  befell  him,  but  he  could  not 
look  and  see  his  sublime  Pons  maltreated ;  his  Pons,  his 
unknown  Aristides,  the  genius  resigned  to  his  lot,  the  nature 
that  knew  no  bitterness,  the  treasury  of  kindness,  the  heart  of 
gold  !  Alceste's  indignation  filled  Schmucke's  soul — he  was 
moved  to  call  Pons'  amphitryons  "  fools."  For  his  pacific 
nature  that  impulse  equaled  the  wrath  of  Roland. 

With  wise  foresight,  Schmucke  turned  to  go  home  by  the 
way  of  the  Boulevard  du  Temple,  Pons  passively  submitting  like 
a  fallen  fighter,  heedless  of  blows ;  but  chance  ordered  that 
he   should  know  that  all   his  world  was  against   him.     The 


COUSIN  PONS.  195 

House  of  Peers,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  strangers,  and  the 
family,  the  strong,  the  weak,  and  the  innocent,  all  combined 
to  send  down  the  avalanche. 

In  the  Boulevard  Poissonniere,  Pons  caught  sight  of  that 
very  M.  Cardot's  daughter,  who,  young  as  she  was,  had  learned 
to  be  charitable  to  others  through  trouble  of  her  own.  Her 
husband  knew  a  secret  by  which  he  kept  her  in  bondage.* 
She  was  the  only  one  among  Pons'  hostesses  whom  he  called  by 
her  Christain  name ;  he  addressed  Mme-  Berthier  as 
"Felicie,"  and  he  thought  that  she  understood  him.  The 
gentle  creature  seemed  to  be  distressed  by  the  sight  of  Cousin 
Pons,  as  he  was  called  (though  he  was  in  no  way  related  to 
the  family  of  the  second  wife  of  a  cousin  by  marriage).  There 
was  no  help  for  it,  however;  Felicie  Berthier  stopped  to  speak 
to  the  invalid. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  cruel  cousin,"  she  said  ;  ''  but 
if  even  a  quarter  of  all  that  I  hear  of  you  is  true,  you  are 
very  false.  Oh  !  do  not  justify  yourself,"  she  added  quickly, 
seeing  Pons'  significant  gesture,  "  it  is  useless,  for  two  reasons. 
In  the  first  place,  I  have  no  right  to  accuse  or  judge  or  con- 
demn anybody,  for  I  myself  know  so  well  how  much  may  be 
said  for  those  who  seem  to  be  most  guilty  ;  secondly,  your 
explanation  would  do  no  good.  Monsieur  Berthier  drew  up 
the  marriage-contract  for  Mademoiselle  de  Marville  and  the 
Vicomte  Popinot ;  he  is  so  exasperated,  that  if  he  knew  that 
I  had  so  much  as  spoken  one  word  to  you,  one  word  for  the 
last  time,  he  would  scold  me.     Everybody  is  against  you." 

"  So  it  seems  indeed,  madame,"  Pons  said,  his  voice  shaking, 
as  he  lifted  his  hat  respectfully. 

Painfully  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie. 
The  old  German  knew  from  the  heavy  weight  on  his  arm  that 
his  friend  was  struggling  bravely  against  failing  physical 
strength.  That  third  encounter  was  like  the  verdict  of  the 
X.amb  at  the  foot  of  the  throne  of  God  ;  and  the  anger  of  the 

*  See  "  The  Unconscious  Mummers." 


196  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

Angel  of  the  Poor,  the  symbol  of  the  Peoples,  is  the  last  word 
of  Heaven.  They  reached  home  without  the  utterance  of 
another  word. 

There  are  moments  in  our  lives  when  the  sense  that  our 
friend  is  near  is  all  that  we  can  bear.  Our  wounds  smart  under 
the  consoling  words  that  only  reveal  the  depths  of  pain.  The 
old  pianist,  you  see,  possessed  a  genius  for  friendship,  the  tact 
of  those  who,  having  suffered  much,  know  the  customs  of  suf- 
fering. 

Pons  was  never  to  take  a  walk  again.  From  one  illness  he 
fell  into  another.  He  was  of  a  sanguine-bilious  temperament, 
the  bile  passed  into  the  blood,  and  a  violent  liver  attack  was 
the  result.  He  had  never  known  a  day's  illness  in  his  life  till 
a  month  ago ;  he  had  never  consulted  a  doctor ;  so  La  Cibot, 
with  almost  motherly  care  and  intentions  at  first  of  the  very 
best,  called  in  •'  the  doctor  of  the  quarter." 

In  every  quarter  of  Paris  there  is  a  doctor  whose  name  and 
address  are  only  known  to  the  working-classes,  to  the  little 
tradespeople  and  the  porters,  and  in  consequence  he  is  called 
"the  doctor  of  the  quarter."  He  undertakes  confinement 
cases,  he  lets  blood,  he  is  in  the  medical  profession  pretty 
much  what  the  "general  servant"  of  the  advertising  column 
is  in  the  scale  of  domestic  service.  He  must  perforce  be  kind 
to  the  poor,  and  tolerably  expert  by  reason  of  much  practice, 
and  he  is  generally  popular.  Dr.  Poulain,  called  in  by  Mme. 
Cibot,  gave  an  inattentive  ear  to  the  old  musician's  complain- 
ings. Pons  groaned  out  that  his  skin  itched  ;  he  had  scratched 
himself  all  night  long,  till  he  could  scarcely  feel.  The  look 
of  his  eyes,  with  the  yellow  circles  about  them,  corroborated 
the  symptoms. 

"  Had  you  some  violent  shock  a  couple  of  days  ago  ?  "  the 
doctor  asked  the  patient. 

"Yes,  alas!  " 

"You  have  the  same  complaint  that  this  gentleman  was 
threatened  with,"  said  Dr.  Poulain,  looking  at  Schmucke  as 


COUSIN  PONS.  197 

he  spoke ;  "  it  is  an  attack  of  jaundice,  but  you  will  soon  get 
over  it,"  he  added,  as  he  wrote  a  prescription. 

But  in  spite  of  that  comfortable  phrase,  the  doctor's  eye  had 
told  another  tale  as  he  looked  profe^sionally  at  the  patient ; 
and  the  death-sentence,  though  hidden  under  stereotyped 
compassion,  can  always  be  read  by  those  who  wish  to  know 
the  truth.  Mme.  Cibot  gave  a  spy's  glance  at  the  doctor, 
and  read  his  thought;  his  bedside  manner  did  not  deceive 
her;  she  followed  him  out  of  the  room. 

"Do  you  think  he  will  get  over  it?"  asked  Mme.  Cibot, 
at  the  stairhead. 

"My  dear  Madame  Cibot,  your  lodger  is  a  dead  man;  not 
because  of  the  bile  in  the  system,  but  because  his  vitality  is 
low.  Still,  with  great  care,  your  patient  may  pull  through. 
Somebody  ought  to  take  him  away  for  a  change " 

"How  is  he  to  go?"  asked  Mme.  Cibot.  '-'He  has 
nothing  to  live  upon  but  his  salary ;  his  friend  has  just  a  little 
money  from  some  great  ladies,  very  charitable  ladies,  in  re- 
turn for  his  services,  it  seems.  They  are  two  children.  I 
have  looked  after  them  for  nine  years." 

"I  spend  my  life  in  watching  people  die,  not  of  their 
disease,  but  of  another  bad  and  incurable  complaint — the 
want  of  money,"  said  the  doctor.  •'•  How  often  it  happens 
that  so  far  from  taking  a  fee,  I  am  obliged  to  leave  a  five-franc 
piece  on  the  mantel-shelf  when  I  so " 

"  Poor,  dear  Monsieur  Poulain  !  "  cried  Mme.  Cibot.  "Ah, 
if  you  hadn't  only  the  hundred  thousand  livres  a  year,  what 
some  stingy  people  has  in  the  quarter  (regular  devils  from  hell 
they  are),  you  would  be  like  providence  on  earth,"  she  added, 
curtsying. 

Dr.  Poulain  had  made  the  little  practice,  by  which  he  made 
a  bare  subsistence,  chiefly  by  winning  the  esteem  of  the 
porters'  lodges  in  his  district.  So  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
heaven  and  thanked  Mme.  Cibot  with  a  solemn  face  worthy 
of  Tartuffe. 


198  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

"  Then  you  think  that  with  careful  nursing  our  dear  patient 
will  get  better,  my  dear  Monsieur  Poulain  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  this  shock  has  not  been  too  much  for  him." 

"Poor  man!  who  can  have  vexed  him?  There  isn't  no- 
body like  him  on  earth,  except  his  friend  Monsieur  Schmucke. 
I  will  find  out  what  is  the  matter,  and  I  will  undertake  to 
give  them  that  upset  my  gentleman  a  hauling  over  the 
coals ' ' 

"Look  here,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot,"  said  the  doctor  as 
they  stood  in  the  gateway,  "  one  of  the  principal  symptoms 
of  his  complaint  is  great  irritability ;  and  as  it  is  hardly  to  be 
supposed  that  he  can  afford  a  nurse,  the  task  of  nursing  him 
will  fall  to  you.     So " 

"Are  you  talking  of  Mouchieu  Ponsh?"  asked  the  marine- 
store-dealer.  He  was  sitting  smoking  on  the  curb-post  in  the 
gateway,  and  now  he  rose  to  join  in  the  conversation. 

"  Yes,  Daddy  Remonencq." 

"All  right,"  said  Remonencq,  "ash  to  moneysh,  he  ish 
better  off  than  Mouchieur  Monishtrol  and  the  big  men  in  the 
curioshity  line.  I  know  enough  in  the  art  line  to  tell  you 
thish — the  dear  man  hash  treasursh  !  "  he  spoke  with  a  broad 
Auvergne  dialect. 

"Look  here,  I  thought  you  were  laughing  at  me  the  other 
day  when  my  gentlemen  were  out  and  I  showed  you  the  old 
rubbish  upstairs,"  said  Mme.  Cibot. 

In  Paris  where  walls  liave  ears,  where  doors  have  tongues, 
and  window-bars  have  eyes,  there  are  few  things  more  danger- 
ous than  the  practice  of  standing  to  chat  in  a  gateway.  Part- 
ings are  like  postscripts  to  a  letter — indiscreet  utterances  that 
do  as  much  mischief  to  the  speaker  as  to  those  who  overhear 
them.  A  single  instance  will  be  sufficient  as  a  parallel  to  an 
event  in  this  history. 

In  the  time  of  the  Empire  when  men  paid  considerable 
attention  to  their  hair,  one  of  the  first  coiffeurs  of  the  dav 
came  out  of  a  house  where  he  had  just  been  dressing  a  pretty 


COUSIN  PONS.  199 

woman's  head.  This  artist  in  question  enjoyed  the  custom 
of  all  the  lower  floor  inmates  of  the  house;  and,  among  these, 
there  flourished  an  elderly  bachelor  guarded  by  a  housekeeper 
who  detested  her  master's  next-of-kin.  The  ci-devant  young 
man,  falling  seriously  ill,  the  most  famous  doctors  of  the  day 
(they  were  not  as  yet  styled  the  ''  princes  of  science")  had 
been  called  in  to  consult  upon  his  case ;  and  it  so  chanced 
that  the  learned  gentlemen  were  taking  leave  of  one  another 
in  the  gateway  just  as  the  hairdresser  came  out.  They  were 
talking  as  doctors  usually  talk  among  themselves  when  the 
farce  of  a  consultation  is  over.  "He  is  a  dead  man,"  quoth 
Dr.  Haudry.  "  He  has  not  a  month  to  live,"  added  Des- 
plein,  "unless  a  miracle  takes  place."  These  were  the  words 
overheard  by  the  hairdresser. 

Like  all  hairdressers,  he  kept  up  a  good  understanding  with 
his  customers'  servants.  Prodigious  greed  sent  the  man  up- 
stairs again  ;  he  mounted  to  the  ci-devant  young  man's  apart- 
ment, and  promised  the  servant-mistress  a  tolerably  handsome 
commission  to  persuade  her  master  to  sink  a  large  proportion 
of  his  money  in  an  annuity.  The  dying  bachelor,  fifty-six 
by  count  of  years,  and  twice  as  old  as  his  age  by  reason  of 
amorous  campaigns,  owned,  among  other  property,  a  splendid 
house  in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  worth  at  that  time  about  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  It  was  this  house  that  the 
hairdresser  coveted ;  and  on  agreement  to  pay  an  annuity  of 
thirty  thousand  francs  so  long  as  the  bachelor  lived,  it  passed 
into  his  hands.  This  happened  in  1806.  And  in  this  present 
year  1846  the  hairdresser  is  still  paying  that  annuity.  He  has 
retired  from  business,  he  is  seventy  years  old  ;  the  ci-devant 
young  man  is  in  his  dotage  ;  and  as  he  has  married  his  Mme. 
Evrard,  he  may  last  for  a  long  while  yet.  As  the  hairdresser 
gave  the  woman  thirty  thousand  francs,  his  bit  of  real  estate 
has  cost  him,  first  and  last,  more  than  a  million,  and  the 
house  at  this  day  is  worth  eight  or  nine  hundred  thousand 
francs. 


200  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

Like  the  hairdresser,  Remonencq  the  Auvergnat  had  over- 
heard Brunner's  parting  remark  in  the  gateway  on  the  day  of 
Cecile's  first  interview  with  that  phoenix  of  eligible  men. 
Remonencq  at  once  longed  to  gain  a  sight  of  Pons'  museum ; 
and  as  he  lived  on  good  terms  with  his  neighbors  the  Cibots, 
it  was  not  very  long  before  the  opportunity  came,  one  day 
when  the  friends  were  out.  The  sight  of  such  treasures  daz- 
zled him;  he  saw  a  "good  haul,"  in  dealers'  phrase,  which 
being  interpreted  means  a  chance  to  steal  a  fortune.  He  had 
been  meditating  this  for  five  or  six  days. 

"  I  am  sho  far  from  joking,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  Mme. 
Cibot's  remark,  "that  we  will  talk  the  thing  over;  and  if 
the  good  shentleman  will  take  an  annuity  of  fifty  thoushand 
francsh,  I  will  shtand  a  hamper  of  wine,  if " 

"  Fifty  thousand  francs  !  "  interrupted  the  doctor  ;  "what 
are  you  thinking  about?  Why,  if  the  good  man  is  so  well  off 
as  that,  with  me  in  attendance,  and  La  Cibot  to  nurse  him,  he 
may  get  better — for  liver  complaint  is  a  disease  that  attacks 
strong  constitutions." 

"Fifty,  did  I  shay?  Why,  a  shentleman  here,  on  your 
very  doorshtep,  offered  him  sheven  hundred  thoushand  francsh, 
shimply  for  the  i^\z\.\\x'^,  fouchtra !'" 

While  Remonencq  made  this  announcement,  Mme.  Cibot 
was  looking  at  Dr.  Poulain.  There  was  a  strange  expression 
in  her  eyes ;  the  devil  might  have  kindled  that  sinister  glitter 
in  their  tawny  depths. 

"Oh,  come!  we  must  not  pay  any  attention  to  such  idle 
tales,"  said  the  doctor,  well  pleased,  however,  to  find  that  his 
patient  could  aff'ord  to  pay  for  his  visits. 

"  If  my  dear  Madame  Chibot,  here,  would  let  me  come  and 
bring  an  ekshpert  (shinsh  the  shentleman  upshtairs  ish  in 
bed),  I  will  shertainly  find  the  money  in  a  couple  of  hoursh, 
even  if  sheven  hundred  thoushand  francsh  ishinqueshtion " 

"All  right,  my  friend,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Now,  Madame 
Cibot,  be  careful  never  to  contradict  the  invalid.     You  must 


COUSIN  PONS.  201 

be  prepared  to  be  very  patient  with  him,  for  he  will  find 
everything  irritating  and  wearisome,  even  your  services ; 
nothing  will  please  him;  you  must  expect  grumbling " 

"  He  will  be  uncommonly  hard  to  please,"  said  La  Cibot. 

"Look  here,  mind  what  I  tell  you,"  the  doctor  said  in  a 
tone  of  authority,  *'  Monsieur  Pons'  life  is  in  the  hands  of 
those  that  nurse  him ;  1  shall  come  perhaps  twice  a  day.  I 
shall  take  him  first  on  my  round." 

The  doctor's  profound  indifference  to  the  fate  of  a  poor 
patient  had  suddenly  given  place  to  a  most  tender  solicitude 
when  he  saw  that  the  speculator  was  serious,  and  that  there 
was  a  possible  fortune  in  question. 

"  He  will  be  nursed  like  a  king,"  said  Madame  Cibot, 
forcing  up  enthusiasm.  She  waited  till  the  doctor  turned  the 
corner  into  the  Rue  Chariot ;  then  she  fell  to  talking  again 
with  the  dealer  in  old  iron.  Remonencq  had  finished  smok- 
ing his  pipe,  and  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  store,  leaning 
against  the  frame ;  he  had  purposely  taken  this  position ;  he 
meant  the  portress  to  come  to  him. 

The  store  had  once  been  a  cafe.  Nothing  had  been  changed 
there  since  the  Auvergnat  discovered  it  and  took  over  the 
lease;  you  could  still  read  "Cafe  de  Normandie"  on  the 
strip  left  above  the  windows  in  all  modern  stores.  Remonencq 
had  found  somebody,  probably  a  house-painter's  apprentice, 
who  did  the  work  for  nothing,  to  paint  another  inscription  in 
the  remaining  space  below — it  ran:  "Remonencq,  dealer 
IN  marine  stores,  furniture  bought" — painted  in  small 
black  letters.  All  the  mirrors,  tables,  seats,  shelves,  and  fit- 
tings of  the  Cafe  de  Normandie  had  been  sold,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  before  Remonencq  took  possession  of  the  store 
as  it  stood,  paying  a  yearly  rent  of  six  hundred  francs  for  the 
place,  with  a  back  store,  a  kitchen,  and  a  single  room  above, 
where  the  head-waiter  used  to  sleep,  for  the  house  belonging 
to  the  Cafe  de  Normandie  was  let  separately.  Of  the  former 
splendor  of  the  cafe,  nothing  now  remained  save  the  plain 


202  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

light  green  paper  on  the  walls,  and  tlie  strong  iron  bolts  and 
bars  of  the  store-front. 

When  Rernonencq  came  hither  in   1831,  after  the  Revolu- 
tion of  July,   lie  began  by  displaying  a  selection   of  broken 
door-bells,  cracked  plates,  old  iron,  and  the  obsolete  scales 
and  weights  abolished  by  a  Government  which  alone  fails  to 
carry  out  its  own  regulations,  for  deux-sous  and  sous  of  the 
time  of  Louis  XVI,  are  still  in  circulation.-     After  a  time  this 
Auvergnat,  a  match  for  five  ordinary  Auvergnats,  bought  up 
old  saucepans  and  kettles,  old  picture- frames,  old  copper,  and 
chipped  china.     Gradually,  as  the  store  was  emptied  and  filled, 
the    quality  of  the   stock-in-trade    improved,    like    Nicolet's 
farces.    Rernonencq  persisted  in  an  unfailing  and  prodigiously 
profitable  martingale,*  a  "system"  which  any  philosophical 
idler  may  study  as  he  watches  the  increasing  value  of  the  stock 
kept  by  this  intelligent  class  of  trader.    Picture-frames  and  cop- 
per succeed  to  tinware,  argand  lamps,  and  damaged  crockery; 
china  marks  the  next  transition  ;  and  after  no  long  tarrying 
in    the    "omnium   gatherum"    stage,    the   store   becomes   a 
museum.     Some  day  or  other  the  dusty  windows  are  cleaned, 
the  interior  is  restored,  the  Auvergnat  relinquishes  velveteen 
and  jackets  for  a  greatcoat,  and  there  he  sits  like  a  dragon 
guarding  his  treasure,  surrounded  by  masterpieces  !     He  is  a 
cunning  connoisseur  by  this  time  ;  he  has  increased  his  capital 
tenfold  ;   he  is  not  to  be  cheated ;  he  knows  the  tricks  of  the 
trade.     The  monster  among  his  treasures  looks  like  some  old 
hag  among  a  score  of  young  girls  that  she  offers  to  the  public. 
Beauty  and  miracles  of  art  are  alike  indifferent  to  him  ;  subtle 
and   dense  as  he  is,  he   has  a  keen  eye  to  profits,  he  talks 
roughly  to  those  who  know  less  than  he  does ;  he  has  learned 
to  act  a  part,  he  pretends  to  love  his  pictures  and  his  mar- 
quetry, or  he  tells  you  that  he  is  short  of  money,  or  again  he 
lets  you  know  the  price  he  himself  gave  for  the  things,  he 
offers  to  let  you  see  the  memoranda  of  the  sale.     He  is  a 
*  Jouer  d  la  martingali — playing  for  double  or  quits. 


COUSIN  PONS.  203 

Proteus ;  in  one  hour  lie  can  be  Jocrisse,  Janot,  Queue-rouge, 
Mondor,  Harpagon,  or  Nicodeme. 

The  third  year  found  armor,  and  old  pictures,  and  some 
tolerably  fine  clocks  in  Remonencq's  store.  He  sent  for  his 
sister,  and  La  Remonencq  came  on  foot  all  the  way  from 
Auvergne  to  take  charge  of  the  store  while  her  brother  was 
away.  A  big  and  very  ugly  woman,  dressed  like  a  Japanese 
idol,  a  half-idiotic  creature  with  a  vague,  staring  gaze,  she 
would  not  bate  a  centime  of  the  prices  fixed  by  her  brother. 
In  the  intervals  of  business  she  did  the  work  of  the  house,  and 
solved  the  apparently  insoluble  problem — how  to  live  on  "  the 
mists  of  the  Seine."  The  Remonencqs'  diet  consisted  of  bread 
and  herrings,  with  tlie  outside  leaves  of  lettuce  or  vegetable 
refuse  selected  from  the  heaps  deposited  in  the  kennel  before 
the  doors  of  eating-houses.  The  two  between  them  did  not 
spend  more  than  ten  sous  a  day  on  food  (bread  included),  and 
La  Remonencq  earned  the  whole  money  by  sewing  or  spin- 
ning. 

Remonencq  came  to  Paris  in  the  first  instance  to  work  as 
an  errand-boy.  Between  the  years  1825  and  1831  he  ran 
errands  for  dealers  in  curiosities  in  the  Boulevard  Beaumar- 
chais  or  coppersmiths  in  the  Rue  de  Lappe.  It  is  the  usual 
start  in  life  in  his  line  of  business.  Jews,  Normans,  Auverg- 
nats,  and  Savoyards,  those  four  different  races  of  men  all  have 
the  same  instincts,  and  make  their  fortunes  in  the  same  way  ; 
they  spend  nothing,  make  small  profits,  and  let  them  accumu- 
late at  compound  interest.  Such  is  their  trading  charter,  and 
that  charter  is  no  delusion. 

Remonencq  at  this  moment  had  made  it  up  with  his  old 
master  Monistrol ;  he  did  business  with  wholesale  dealers,  he 
was  a  chineur  (the  technical  word),  plying  his  trade  in  the 
district,  which,  as  everybody  knows,  extend  for  some  forty 
leagues  round  Paris. 

After  fourteen  years  of  business,  he  had  sixty  thousand 
francs  in  hand  and   a  well-stocked   store.     He  lived  in  the 


204  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

Rue  de  Norraandie  because  the  rent  was  low,  but  casual  cus- 
tomers were  scarce,  most  of  his  goods  were  sold  to  other 
dealers,  and  he  was  content  with  moderate  gains.  All  his 
business  transactions  were  carried  on  in  the  Auvergne  dialect 
or  charahia,  as  people  call  it. 

Remonencq  cherished  a  dream  !  He  wished  to  establish 
himself  on  a  boulevard,  to  be  a  rich  dealer  in  curiosities, 
and  do  a  direct  trade  with  amateurs  some  day.  And,  in- 
deed, within  him  there  was  a  formidable  man  of  business. 
His  countenance  was  the  more  inscrutable  because  it  was 
glazed  over  by  a  deposit  of  dust  and  particles  of  metal  glued 
together  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow;  for  he  did  everything 
himself,  and  the  use  and  wont  of  bodily  labor  had  given 
him  something  of  the  stoical  impassability  of  the  old  sol- 
diers of  1799. 

In  personal  appearance  Remonencq  was  short  and  thin  ; 
his  little  eyes  were  set  in  his  head  in  porcine  fashion  ;  a 
Jew's  slyness  and  concentrated  greed  looked  out  of  those  dull 
blue  circles,  though  in  his  case  the  false  humility  that  masks 
the  Israelite's  unfathomed  contempt  for  the  Gentile  was 
lacking. 

The  relations  between  the  Cibots  and  the  Remonencqs 
were  those  of  benefactors  and  recipients.  Mme.  Cibot,  con- 
vinced that  the  Auvergnats  were  wretchedly  poor,  used  to  let 
them  have  the  remainder  of  "her  gentlemen's"  dinners  at 
ridiculous  prices.  The  Remonencqs  would  buy  a  pound  of 
broken  bread,  crusts  and  crumbs,  for  a  centime,  a  porringer 
full  of  cold  potatoes  for  something  less,  and  other  scraps  in 
proportion.  Remonencq  shrewdly  allowed  them  to  believe 
that  he  was  not  in  business  on  his  own  account,  he  worked 
for  Monistrol,  the  rich  storekeepers  preyed  upon  him,  he 
said,  and  the  Cibots  felt  sincerely  sorry  for  Remonencq. 
The  velveteen  jacket,  vest,  and  trousers,  particularly  affected 
by  Auvergnats,  were  covered  with  patches  of  Cibot's  making, 
and  not  a  penny  had    the    little  tailor    charged    for   repairs 


COUSIN  PONS.  2U5 

which  kept  the    three   garments    together  after  eleven  years 
of  wear. 

Thus  we  see  that  all  Jews  are  not  in  Israel. 

"You  are  not  laughing  at  me,  Remonencq,  are  you  .^  " 
asked  the  portress.  "  Is  it  possible  that  Monsieur  Pons  has 
such  a  fortune,  living  as  he  does  ?  There  is  not  a  hundred 
francs  in  the  place " 

"  Amateursh  are  all  like  that,"  Remonencq  remarked  sen- 
tentiously. 

"  Then  do  you  think  that  my  gentleman  has  the  worth  of 
seven  hundred  thousand  francs,  eh? " 

"In  pictures  alone,"  continued  Remonencq  (it  is  needless, 
for  the  sake  of  clearness  in  the  story,  to  give  any  further  speci- 
mens of  his  frightful  dialect).  "If  he  would  take  fifty  thou- 
sand francs  for  one  up  there  that  I  know  of,  I  would  find  the 
money  if  I  had  to  hang  myself.  Do  you  remember  those  little 
frames   full   of  enameled  copper  on  crimson  velvet,  hanging 

among  the  portraits  ? Well,  those  are  Petitot's  enamels  ; 

and  there  is  a  cabinet   minister  as  used  to  be  a  druggist  that 
will  give  three  thousand  francs  apiece  for  them." 

La  Cibot's  eyes  opened  wide.  "  There  are  thirty  of  them 
in  the  pair  of  frames  !  "  she  said, 

"  Very  well,  you  can  judge  for  yourself  how  much  he  is 
worth." 

Mme.  Cibot's  head  was  swimming ;  she  wheeled  round.  In 
a  moment  came  the  thought  that  she  would  have  a  legacy,  she 
would  sleep  sound  on  old  Pons'  will,  like  the  other  servant- 
mistresses  whose  annuities  had  aroused  such  envy  in  the  Ma- 
rais.  Her  thoughts  flew  to  some  commune  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Paris;  she  saw  herself  strutting  proudly  about  her 
house  in  the  country,  looking  after  her  garden  and  poultry- 
yard,  ending  her  days,  served  like  a  queen,  along  with  her 
poor  dear  Cibot,  who  deserved  such  good  fortune,  like  all 
angelic  creatures  whom  nobody  but  one's  self  knows  nor  ap- 
preciates. 


206  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

Her  abrupt,  unthinking  movement  told  Remonencq  that 
success  was  sure.  In  the  chineur  s  way  of  business — the 
chineur,  be  it  explained,  goes  about  the  couuiry  picking  up 
bargains  at  the  expense  of  the  ignorant — in  the  chineur' s  way 
of  business,  the  one  real  difficulty  is  the  problem  of  gaining  an 
entrance  to  a  house.  No  one  can  imagine  the  Scapin's 
roguery,  the  tricks  of  a  Sganarelle,  the  wiles  of  a  Dorine  by 
which  the  chineur  contrives  to  make  a  footing  for  himself. 
These  comedies  are  as  good  as  a  play,  and  founded  indeed  on 
the  old  stock  theme  of  the  dishonesty  of  servants.  For  thirty 
francs  in  money  or  goods,  servants,  and  especially  country  ser- 
vants, will  sometimes  conclude  a  bargain  on  which  the  chineur 
makes  a  profit  of  a  thousand  or  two  thousand  francs.  If  we 
could  but  know  the  history  of  such  and  such  a  service  of  Sevres 
porcelain,  pate  iendre,  we  should  find  that  all  the  intellect, 
all  the  diplomatic  subtlety  displayed  at  Miinster,  Nimeguen, 
Utrecht,  Ryswick,  and  Vienna  was  surpassed  by  the  chineur. 
His  is  the  more  frank  comedy ;  his  methods  of  action  fathom 
depths  of  personal  interest  quite  as  profound  as  any  that  pleni- 
potentiaries can  explore  in  their  difficult  search  for  any  means 
of  breaking  up  the  best  cemented  alliances. 

"  I  have  set  La  Cibot  nicely  on  fire,"  Remonencq  told  his 
sister  when  she  came  to  take  up  her  position  again  on  the  ram- 
shackle chair.  "And  now,"  he  continued,  "I  shall  go  to 
consult  the  only  man  that  knows,  our  Jew,  a  good  sort  of  Jew 
that  did  not  ask  more  than  fifteen  per  cent,  of  us  for  his 
money." 

Remonencq  had  read  La  Cibot's  heart.  To  will  is  to  act 
with  women  of  her  stamp.  Let  them  see  the  end  in  view  \ 
they  will  stick  at  nothing  to  gain  it,  and  pass  from  scrupulous 
honesty  to  the  last  degree  of  scoundrelism  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye.  Honesty,  like  most  dispositions  of  mind,  is  divided 
into  two  classes — negative  and  positive.  La  Cibot's  honesty 
was  of  the  negative  order;  she  and  her  like  are  honest  until 
they  see  their  way  clear  to  gain  money  belonging  to  somebody 


COUSIN  POi\S.  207 

else.  Positive  honesty,  the  honesty  of  the  bank  collector,  can 
wade  knee-deep  through  temptations. 

A  torrent  of  evil  thoughts  invaded  La  Cibot's  heart  and 
brain  so  soon  as  Remonencq's  diabolical  suggestion  opened 
the  floodgates  of  self-interest.  La  Cibot  climbed,  or,  to  be 
more  accurate,  flew  up  the  stairs,  opened  the  door  on  the  land- 
ing, and  showed  a  face  disguised  in  false  solicitude  in  the 
doorway  of  the  room  where  Pons  and  Schmucke  were  bemoan- 
ing themselves.  As  soon  as  she  came  in,  Schmucke  made  her 
a  warning  sign  ;  for,  true  friend  and  sublime  German  that  he 
was,  he,  too,  had  read  the  doctor's  eyes,  and  he  was  afraid 
that  Mme.  Cibot  might  repeat  the  verdict.  Mme.  Cibot  an- 
swered by  a  shake  of  the  head,  indicative  of  deep  woe. 

"  Well,  my  dear  monsieur,"  asked  she,  "  how  are  you  feel- 
ing ?  "  She  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  hands  on  hips, 
and  fixed  her  eyes  lovingly  upon  the  patient ;  but  what  a 
glitter  of  metal  there  was  in  them,  a  terrible,  tiger-like  gleam 
if  any  one  had  watclied  her. 

"I  feel  very  ill,"  answered  poor  Pons.  ''I  have  not  the 
slightest  appetite  left.  Oh!  the  world,  the  world!"  he 
groaned,  squeezing  Schmucke's  hand.  Schmucke  was  sitting 
by  his  bedside,  and  doubtless  the  sick  man  was  talking  of  the 
causes  of  his  illness.  ''  I  should  have  done  far  better  to  follow 
your  advice,  my  good  Schmucke,  and  dined  here  every  day, 
and  given  up  going  into  this  society,  that  has  fallen  on  me 
with  all  its  weight,  like  a  tumbril  crushing  an  egg  !  And 
why?" 

"Come,  come,  don't  complain.  Monsieur  Pons,"  said  La 
Cibot ;   *'  the  doctor  told  me  just  how  it  is " 

Schmucke  tugged  at  her  gown.  "And  you  will  pull 
through,"  she  continued,  "only  we  must  take  great  care  of 
you.  Be  easy,  you  have  a  good  friend  beside  you,  and,  with- 
out boasting,  a  woman  as  will  nurse  you  like  a  mother  nurses 
her  first  child.  I  nursed  Cibot  round  once  when  Dr.  Poulain 
had  given  him  over;  he  had  the  shroud  up  to  his  eyes,  as  thq 


208  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

saying  is,  and  they  gave  him  up  for  dead.  Well,  well,  you 
have  not  come  to  that  yet,  God  be  thanked,  ill  though  you 
may  be.  Count  on  me  ;  I  would  pull  you  through  all  by  my- 
self, I  would  !     Keep  still,  don't  you  fidget  like  that." 

She  pulled  the  coverlet  over  the  patient's  hands  as  she 
spoke. 

"There,  sonny!  Monsieur  Schmucke  and  I  will  sit  up 
with  you  of  nights.  A  prince  won't  be  no  better  nursed — 
and,  beside,  you  needn't  refuse  yourself  nothing  that's  neces- 
sary, you  can  afford  it.  I  have  just  been  talking  things  over 
with  Cibot,  for  what  would  he  do  without  me,  poor  dear? 
Well,  and  I  talked  him  round  ;  we  are  both  so  fond  of  you, 
that  he  will  let  me  stop  up  with  you  of  a  night.  And  that  is 
a  good  deal  to  ask  of  a  man  like  him,  for  he  is  as  fond  of  me 
as  ever  he  was  the  day  we  was  married.  I  don't  know  how  it 
is.  It  is  the  lodge,  you  see ;  we  are  always  there  together ! 
Don't  you  throw  off  the  things  like  that !  "  she  cried,  making 
a  dash  for  the  bedhead  to  draw  the  coverlet  over  Pons'  chest. 
"  If  you  are  not  good,  and  don't  do  just  as  Dr.  Poulain  says 
— and  Dr.  Poulain  is  the  image  of  Providence  on  earth — I 
will  have  no  more  to  do  with  you.  You  must  do  as  I  tell 
you " 

"Yes,  Montame  Zipod,  he  vill  do  vat  you  tell  him,"  put 
in  Schmucke  \  "  he  vants  to  lif  for  his  boor  friend  Schmucke's 
sake,  I'll  pe  pound." 

"And  of  all  things,  don't  fidget  yourself,"  continued  La 
Cibot,  "for  your  illness  makes  you  quite  bad  enough  without 
your  making  it  worse  for  want  of  patience.  God  sends  us  our 
troubles,  my  dear  good  gentleman ;  He  punishes  us  for  our 
sins.  Haven't  you  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with?  some 
poor  little  bit  of  a  fault  or  other  ?  " 

The  invalid  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh  !  go  on  !  You  were  young  once,  you  had  your  fling, 
there  is  some  love-child  of  yours  somewhere — cold,  and  starv- 
ing, and   homeless.     What   monsters  men  are  !     Their   love 


COUSIN  PONS.  209 

doesn't  last  only  for  a  day,  and  then  in  a  jiffy  they  forget, 
they  don't  so  much  as  think  of  the  child  at  the  breast  for 
months.     Poor  women  !  " 

"But  no  one  has  ever  loved  me  except  Schmucke  and  my 
mother,"  poor  Pons  broke  in  sadly. 

"Oh!  come,  you  ain't  no  saint!  You  were  young  in 
your  time,  and  a  fine-looking  young  fellow  you  must  have 
been  at  twenty.  I  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  you  myself, 
so  nice  as  you  are " 

"  I  always  was  as  ugly  as  a  toad,"  Pons  put  in  desper- 
ately. 

"  You  say  tliat  because  you  are  modest;  nobody  can't  say 
that  you  ain't  modest." 

"  My  dear  Madame  Cibot,  NO,  I  tell  you.  I  always  was 
ugly,  and  I  never  was  loved  in  my  life." 

"  You,  indeed  !  "  cried  the  portress.  "  You  want  to  make 
me  believe  at  this  time  of  day  that  you  are  as  innocent  as  a 
young  maid  at  your  time  of  life.  Tell  that  to  your  granny  ! 
A  musician  at  a  theatre  too  !  Why,  if  a  woman  told  me  that, 
I  wouldn't  believe  her." 

"  Montame  Zipod,  you  irritate  him!"  cried  Schmucke, 
seeing  that  Pons  was  writhing  under  the  bedclothes. 

"You  hold  your  tongue  too  !  You  are  a  pair  of  old  liber- 
tines. If  you  were  ugly,  it  don't  make  no  difference;  there 
was  never  so  ugly  a  saucepan-lid  but  it  found  a  pot  to  match, 
as  the  saying  is.  There  is  Cibot,  he  got  one  of  the  hand- 
somest oyster-women  in  Paris  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  you 
are  somewhat  better  looking  than  him  !  You  are  a  nice  pair, 
you  are  !  Come,  now,  you  have  sown  your  wild  oats,  and 
God  will  punish  you  for  deserting  your  children,  like  Abraham 

and " 

Exhausted  though  he  was,  the  invalid  gathered  up  all  his 
strength  to  make  a  vehement  gesture  of  denial. 

"  Do  lie  quiet ;  if  you  have,  it  won't  prevent  you  from  liv- 
ing as  long  as  Methuselah." 
14 


210  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"Then,  pray  let  me  be  quiet!  "  groaned  Pons.  "I  have 
never  known  what  it  is  to  be  loved.  I  have  had  no  child  ;  I 
am  alone  on  the  earth." 

"  Really,  eh?  "  returned  the  portress.  "  You  are  so  kind, 
and  that  is  what  women  like,  you  see — it  draws  them — and  it 
looked  to  me  impossible  that  when  you  were  in  your  prime 
that " 

"Take  her  away,"  Pons  whispered  to  Schmucke ;  "she 
sets  my  nerves  on  edge." 

"  Then  there's  Daddy  Schmucke,  he  has  children.  You 
old  bachelors  are  not  all  like  that " 

"/.■'"  cried  Schmucke,  springing  to  his  feet,  "  vy  ! " 


"  Come,  then,  you  have  none  to  come  after  you  either,  eh  ? 
You  both  sprung  up  out  of  the  earth  like  mushrooms " 

"  Look  here,  komm  mit  me,"  said  Schmucke.  The  good 
German  manfully  took  Mme.  Cibot  by  the  waist  and  carried 
her  off  into  the  next  room,  in  spite  of  her  exclamations. 

"  At  your  age,  you  would  not  take  advantage  of  a  defense- 
less woman  !  "  cried  La  Cibot,  struggling  in  his  arms. 

"  Don't  make  a  noise  !  " 

"  You  too,  the  better  one  of  the  two  !  "  returned  La  Cibot. 
"Ah!  it  is  my  fault  for  talking  about  love  to  two  old  men 
who  have  never  had  nothing  to  do  with  women.  I  have 
roused  your  passions,"  cried  she,  as  Schmucke's  eyes  glittered 
with  wrath.      "  Help  !  help  !  police  !  " 

"You  are  a  stoopid  !  "  said  the  German.  "Look  here, 
vat  tid  de  toctor  say?  " 

"You  are  a  ruffian  to  treat  me  so,"  wept  La  Cibot,  now 
released,  "  me,  that  would  go  through  fire  and  water  for  you 
both  !  Ah  !  well,  well,  they  say  that  is  the  way  with  men — 
and  true  it  is  !  There  is  my  poor  Cibot,  he  would  not  be 
rough  with  me  like  this And  I  treated  you  like  my  chil- 
dren, for  I  have  none  of  my  own  ;  and  yesterday,  yes,  only 
yesterday  I  said  to  Cibot,  *  God  knew  well  what  He  was 
doing,  dear,'  I  said,   '  when  He  refused  us  children,    for  I 


COUSIN  PONS.  211 

have  two  children  there  upstairs.'     By  the  holy  crucifix  and 
the  soul  of  my  mother,  that  was  what  I  said  to  him " 

"  Eh  !  but  vat  did  der  doctor  say?  "  Schmucke  demanded 
furiously,  stamping  on  the  floor  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"Well,"  said  Mme.  Cibot,  drawing  Schmucke  into  the 
dining-room,  "  he  just  said  this — that  our  dear,  darling  love 
lying  ill  there  would  die  if  he  wasn't  carefully  nursed;  but  I 
am  here  in  spite  of  all  your  brutality,  for  brutal  you  were,  you 
that  I  thought  so  gentle.  And  you  are  one  of  that  sort !  Ah, 
now,  you  would  not  abuse  a  woman  at  your  age,  great  black- 
guard  " 

"Placard?  I?  Vill  you  not  oonderstand  that  I  lof 
nopody  but  Bons?  " 

"  Well  and  good,  you  will  let  me  alone  then,  won't  you?  " 
said  she,  smiling  at  Schmucke.  "You  had  better;  for  if 
Cibot  knew  that  anybody  had  attempted  his  honor,  he  would 
break  every  bone  in  his  skin." 

"  Take  crate  care  of  him,  dear  Montame  Zipod,"  answered 
Schmucke,  and  he  tried  to  take  the  portress'  hand. 

"Oh  !   look  here  now.  again.^' 

"  Chust  listen  to  me.  You  shall  haf  all  dot  I  haf,  gif  ve 
safe  him." 

"  Very  well ;  I  will  go  round  to  the  chemist's  to  get  the 
things  that  are  wanted  ;  this  illness  is  going  to  cost  a  lot,  you 
see,  sir,  and  what  will  you  do?" 

"  I  shall  vork;  Bons  shall  be  nursed  like  ein  brince." 

"So  he  shall,  Monsieur  Schmucke;  and  look  here,  don't 
you  trouble  about  nothing.  Cibot  and  I,  between  us,  have 
saved  a  couple  of  thousand  francs ;  they  are  yours ;  I  have  been 
spending  money  on  you  this  long  time,  I  have." 

"  Goot  voman  !  "  cried  Schmucke,  brushing  the  tears  from 
his  eyes.      "  Vat  ein  heart !  " 

"  Wipe  your  tears ;  they  do  me  honor;  this  is  my  reward," 
said  La  Cibot  melodramatically.  "There  isn't  no  more  dis- 
interested creature  on  earth  than  me;  but  don't  you  go  into 


212  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

« 

the  room  with  tears  in  your  eyes,  or  Monsieur  Pons  will  be 
thinking  himself  worse  than  he  is." 

Schmucke  was  touched  by  this  delicate  feeling.  He  took 
La  Cibot's  hand  and  gave  it  a  final  squeeze. 

"  Spare  me  !  "  cried  the  ex-oysterseller,  leering  at  Schmucke. 

"Bons,"  the  good  German  said  when  he  returned,  "  Mon- 
tame  Zipod  is  an  anchel ;  'tis  an  anchel  dat  brattles,  but  an 
anchel  all  der  same." 

"  Do  you  think  so  !  I  have  grown  suspicious  in  the  past 
month,"  said  the  invalid,  shaking  his  head.  "After  all  I 
have  been  through,  one  comes  to  believe  in  nothing  but  God 
and  my  friend " 

"Get  bedder,  and  ve  vill  lif  like  kings,  all  tree  of  us,"  ex- 
claimed Schmucke. 

"  Cibot  !  "  panted  the  portress  as  she  entered  the  lodge. 
"  Oh,  my  dear,  our  fortune  is  made.  My  two  gentlemen 
haven't  nobody  to  come  after  them,  no  natural  children,  no 
nothing,  in  short !  Oh,  I  shall  go  round  to  Dame  Fontaine's 
to  get  her  to  tell  me  my  fortune  on  the  cards,  then  we  shall 
know  how  much  we  are  going  to  have " 


"Wife,"  said  the  little  tailor,  "it's  ill  counting  on  dead 
men's  shoes." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  2SQ  you  going  to  worry  me  ?  "  asked  she,  giving 
her  spouse  a  playful  tap,  "  I  know  what  I  know  !  Dr.  Poulain 
has  given  up  Monsieur  Pons.  And  we  are  going  to  be  rich  ! 
My  name  will  be  down  in  the  will.  I'll,  see  to  that.  Draw 
your  needle  in  and  out,  and  look  after  the  lodge ;  you  will  not 
do  it  for  long  now.  We  will  retire,  and  go  into  the  country, 
out  at  Batignolles.  A  nice  house  and  a  fine  garden ;  you  will 
amuse  yourself  with  gardening,  and  I  shall  keep  a  servant !  " 

"Well,  neighbor,  and  how  are  things  going  on  upstairs?" 
The  words  were  spoken  with  the  thick  Auvergnat  accent,  and 
Remonencq  put  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "Do  you  know 
what  tlie  collection  is  worth?  " 


COUSIN  PONS.  213 

"No,  no,  not  yet.  One  can't  go  at  that  rate,  my  good 
man.  I  have  begun,  myself,  by  finding  out  more  important 
tilings " 

"  More  important !  "  exclaimed  Rcmonencq  ;  "  why,  what 
things  can  be  more  important  ?" 

"  Come,  let  me  do  the  steering,  ragamuffin,"  said  La  Cibot 
authoritatively. 

"But  thirty  per  cent,  on  seven  hundred  thousand  francs," 
persisted  the  dealer  in  old  iron;  "you  could  be  your  own 
mistress  for  the  rest  of  your  days  on  that." 

"  Be  easy,  Daddy  Remonencq ;  when  we  want  to  know  the 
value  of  the  things  that  the  old  man  has  got  together,  then 
we  will  see." 

La  Cibot  went  for  the  medicine  ordered  by  Dr.  Poulain, 
and  put  off  her  consultation  with  Mme.  Fontaine  until  the 
morrow ;  the  oracle's  faculties  would  be  fresher  and  clearer  in 
the  morning,  she  thought ;  and  she  would  go  early,  before 
anybody  else  came,  for  there  was  often  a  crowd  at  Mme. 
Fontaine's. 

Mme.  Fontaine  was  at  this  time  the  oracle  of  the  Marais ; 
she  had  survived  the  rival  of  forty  years,  the  celebrated  Mile. 
Lenormand.  No  one  imagines  the  part  that  fortune-tellers 
play  among  Parisians  of  the  lower  classes,  nor  the  immense 
influence  which  they  exert  over  the  uneducated  ;  general  ser- 
vants, portresses,  kept  women,  workmen,  all  the  many  in 
Paris  who  live  on  hope,  consult  the  privileged  beings  who 
possess  the  mysterious  power  of  reading  the  future. 

The  belief  in  occult  science  is  far  more  widely  spread  than 
scholars,  lawyers,  doctors,  magistrates,  and  philosophers 
imagine.  The  instincts  of  the  people  are  ineradicable.  One 
among  those  instincts,  so  foolishly  styled  "  superstition,"  runs 
in  the  blood  of  the  populace,  and  tinges  no  less  the  intellects 
of  better  educated  people.  More  than  one  French  statesman 
has  been  known  to  consult  the  fortune-teller's  cards.  For 
skeptical  minds,  astrology,  in  French,  so  oddly  termed  astral- 


214  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

ogie  judiciaire,  is  nothing  more  than  a  cunning  device  for 
making  a  profit  out  of  one  of  the  strongest  of  all  the  instincts 
of  human  nature — to  wit,  curiosity.  The  skeptical  mind  con- 
sequently denies  that  there  is  any  connection  between  human 
destiny  and  the  prognostications  obtained  by  the  seven  or 
eight  principal  methods  known  to  astrology;  and  the  occult 
sciences,  like  many  natural  phenomena,  are  passed  over  by  tlie 
freethinker  or  the  materialist  philosopher,  id  est,  by  those  who 
believe  in  nothing  but  visible  and  tangible  facts,  in  the  results 
given  by  the  chemist's  retort  and  the  scales  of  modern  physi- 
cal science.  The  occult  sciences  still  exist ;  they  are  at  work, 
but  they  make  no  progress,  for  the  greatest  intellects  of  two 
centuries  have  abandoned  the  field. 

If  you  only  look  at  the  practical  side  of  divination,  it  seems 
absurd  to  imagine  that  events  in  a  man's  past  life  and  secrets 
known  only  to  himself  can  be  represented  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  by  a  pack  of  cards  which  he  shuffles  and  cuts  for  the 
fortune-teller  to  lay  out  in  piles  according  to  certain  mysteri- 
ous rules ;  but  then  the  steam-engine  was  condemned  as 
absurd,  aerial  navigation  is  still  said  to  be  absurd,  so  in  their 
time  were  the  inventions  of  gunpowder,  printing,  spectacles, 
engraving,  and  that  latest  great  discovery  of  all — the  daguer- 
reotype. If  any  man  had  come  to  Napoleon  to  tell  him  that 
a  building  or  a  figure  is  at  all  times  and  in  all  places  repre- 
sented by  an  image  in  the  atmosphere,  that  every  existing 
object  has  a  spectral  intangible  double  which  may  become 
visible,  the  Emperor  would  have  sent  .  his  informant  to 
Charenton  for  a  lunatic,  just  as  Richelieu  before  his  day  sent 
that  Norman  martyr,  Salomon  de  Caux,  to  the  Bicgtre  for 
announcing  liis  immense  triumph,  the  idea  of  navigation  by 
steam.  Yet  Daguerre's  discovery  amounts  to  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  this. 

And  if  for  some  clairvoyant  eyes  God  has  written  each 
man's  destiny  over  his  whole  outward  and  visible  form,  if  a 
man's  body  is  the  record  of  his  fate,  why  should  not  the  hand 


COUSIN  PONS.  215 

in  a  manner  epitomize  the  body  ?  Since  the  hand  represents 
the  deed  of  man,  and  by  his  deeds  he  is  known. 

Herein  lies  the  theory  of  palmistry.  Does  not  Society 
imitate  God  ?  At  the  sight  of  a  soldier  we  can  predict  that 
he  will  fight ;  of  a  lawyer,  that  he  will  talk  ;  of  a  shoemaker, 
that  he  shall  make  shoes  or  boots ;  of  a  worker  of  the  soil, 
that  he  shall  dig  the  ground  and  dung  it ;  and  is  it  a  more 
wonderful  thing  that  such  a  one  with  the  "seer's"  gift 
should  foretell  the  events  of  a  man's  life  from  his  hand  ? 

To  take  a  striking  example.  Genius  is  so  visible  in  a  man 
that  a  great  artist  cannot  walk  along  the  streets  of  Paris  but 
the  most  ignorant  people  are  conscious  of  his  passing.  He  is 
a  sun,  as  it  were,  in  the  mental  world,  shedding  light  that 
colors  everything  in  his  path.  And  who  does  not  know  an 
idiot  at  once  by  an  impression  the  exact  opposite  of  the  sensa- 
tion of  the  presence  of  genius.  Most  observers  of  human 
nature  in  general,  and  Parisian  nature  in  particular,  can  guess 
the  profession  or  calling  of  the  man  in  the  street. 

The  mysteries  of  the  witches'  Sabbath,  so  wonderfully 
painted  in  the  sixteenth  century,  are  no  mysteries  for  us.  The 
Egyptian  ancestors  of  that  mysterious  people  of  Indian  origin, 
the  gypsies  of  the  present  day,  simply  used  to  drug  their  clients 
with  hashish,  a  practice  that  fully  accounts  for  broomstick 
rides  and  flights  up  the  chimney,  the  real-seeming  visions,  so 
to  speak,  of  old  crones  transformed  into  young  damsels,  the 
frantic  dances,  the  exquisite  music,  and  all  the  fantastic  tales 
of  devil-worship. 

So  many  proven  facts  have  been  first  discovered  by  occult 
science,  that  some  day  we  shall  have  professors  of  occult 
science,  as  we  already  have  professors  of  chemistry  and  as- 
tronomy. It  is  even  singular  that  here  in  Paris,  where  we  are 
founding  chairs  of  Mantchu  and  Slav  and  literatures  so  little 
professable  (to  coin  a  word)  as  the  literatures  of  the  North 
(which  so  far  from  providing  lessons  stand  very  badly  in  need 
of  them)  ;  when  the  curriculum  is  full  of  the  everlasting  lee- 


216  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

tures  on  Shakespeare  and  the  sixteenth  century — it  is  strange 
that  some  one  has  not  restored  the  teaching  of  the  occult 
philosophies,  once  the  glory  of  the  University  of  Paris,  under 
the  title  of  anthropology.  Germany,  so  child-like  and  so 
great,  has  outstripped  France  in  this  particular  ;  in  Germany 
they  have  professors  of  a  science  of  far  more  use  than  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  heterogeneous  philosophies,  which  all  come  to  the 
same  thing  at  bottom. 

Once  admit  that  certain  beings  have  the  power  of  discerning 
the  future  in  its  germ-form  of  the  Cause,  as  the  great  inventor 
sees  a  glimpse  of  the  industry  latent  m  his  invention,  or  a 
science  in  something  that  happens  every  day  unnoticed  by 
ordinary  eyes — once  allow  this,  and  there  is  nothing  to  cause 
an  outcry  in  such  phenomena,  no  violent  exception  to  nature's 
laws,  but  the  operation  of  a  recognized  faculty ;  possibly  a 
kind  of  mental  somnambulism,  as  it  were.  If,  therefore,  the 
hypothesis  upon  which  the  various  ways  of  divining  the  future 
are  based  seems  absurd,  the  facts  remain.  Remark  that  it  is 
not  really  more  wonderful  that  the  seer  should  foretell  the 
chief  events  of  the  future  than  that  he  should  read  the  past. 
Past  and  future,  on  the  skeptic's  system,  equally  lie  beyond 
the  limits  of  knowledge.  If  the  past  has  left  traces  behind  it, 
it  is  not  improbable  that  future  events  have,  as  it  were,  their 
roots  in  the  present. 

If  a  fortune-teller  gives  you  minute  details  of  past  facts 
known  only  to  yourself,  why  should  he  not  foresee  the  events 
to  be  produced  by  existing  causes?  The  world  of  ideas  is  cut 
out,  so  to  speak,  on  the  pattern  of  the  physical  world  ;  the 
same  phenomena  should  be  discernible  in  both,  allowing  for 
the  difference  of  the  medium.  As,  for  instance,  a  corporeal 
thing  actually  projects  an  image  upon  the  atmosphere — a 
spectral  double  detected  and  recorded  by  the  daguerreotype; 
so  also  ideas,  having  a  real  and  effective  existence,  leave  an 
impression,  as  it  were,  ujjon  the  atmosphere  of  the  spiritual 
world ;  they  likewise  produce  effects,  and  exist  spectrally  (to 


COUSIN  PONS.  217 


coin  a  word  to  express  phenomena  for  which  no  woras  exist), 
and  certain  human  beings  are  endowed  with  the  faculty  of 
discerning  these  ''  forms"  or  traces  of  ideas. 

As  for  the  material  means  employed  to  assist  the  seer — the 
objects  arranged  by  the  hands  of  the  consultant  that  the  acci- 
dents of  his  life  may  be  revealed  to  him — this  is  the  least  in- 
explicable part  of  the  process.  Everything  in  the  material 
world  is  part  of  a  series  of  causes  and  effects.  Nothing  hap- 
pens without  a  cause,  every  cause  is  a  part  of  a  whole,  and, 
consequently,  the  whole  leaves  its  impression  on  the  slightest 
accident.  Rabelais,  the  greatest  mind  among  moderns,  being 
a  resumption  of  Pythagoras,  Hippocrates,  Aristophanes,  and 
Dante,  pronounced,  three  centuries  ago,  that  "  man  is  a  mi- 
crocosm " — a  little  world.  Tliree  hundred  years  later,  the 
great  seer  Swedenborg  declared  that  '•'  the  world  was  a  man." 
The  prophet  and  the  precursor  of  incredulity  meet  thus  in  the 
greatest  of  all  formulas. 

Everything  in  human  life  is  predestined,  so  is  it  also  with 
the  existence  of  the  planet.  The  least  event,  the  most  futile 
phenomena,  are  all  subordinate  parts  of  a  scheme.  Great 
things,  therefore,  great  designs,  and  great  thoughts  are  of 
necessity  reflected  in  the  smallest  actions,  and  that  so  faith- 
fully, that  should  a  conspirator  shuffle  and  cut  a  pack  of  play- 
ing-cards, he  will  write  the  history  of  his  plot  for  the  eyes  of 
the  seer-styled  gypsy,  fortune-teller,  charlatan,  or  what  not. 
If  you  once  admit  fate,  which  is  to  say,  the  chain  of  links  of 
cause  and  effect,  astrology  has  a  locus  standi,  and  becomes  what 
it  was  of  yore,  a  boundless  science,  requiring  the  same  faculty 
of  deduction  by  which  Cuvier  became  so  great,  a  faculty  to  be 
exercised  spontaneously,  however,  and  not  merely  in  nights  of 
study  in  the  closet. 

For  seven  centuries  astrology  and  divination  have  exercised 
an  influence  not  only  (as  at  present)  over  the  uneducated,  but 
over  the  greatest  minds,  over  kings  and  queens  and  wealthy 
people.     Animal  magnetism,  one  of  the  great  sciences  of  an- 


218  THE    POOR   PARENTS. 

tiquity,  had  its  origin  in  occult  philosophy  ;  chemistry  is  the 
outcome  of  alchemy;  phrenology  and  neurology  are  no  less 
the  fruit  of  similar  studies.  Tlie  first  illustrious  workers  in 
these,  to  all  appearance,  untouched  fields,  made  one  mistake, 
the  mistake  of  all  inventors;  that  is  to  say,  they  erected  an 
absolute  system  on  a  basis  of  isolated  facts  for  which  modern 
analysis  as  yet  cannot  account.  The  Catholic  Church,  the 
law  of  the  land,  and  modern  philosophy,  in  agreement  for 
once,  combined  to  proscribe,  persecute,  and  ridicule  the  mys- 
teries of  the  Cabala  as  well  as  the  adepts;  the  result  is  a  lament- 
able interregnum  of  a  century  in  occult  philosophy.  But  the 
uneducated  classes,  and  not  a  few  cultivated  people  (women 
especially),  continue  to  pay  a  tribute  to  the  mysterious  power 
of  those  wlio  can  raise  the  veil  of  the  future ;  they  go  to  buy 
hope,  strength,  and  courage  of  the  fortune-teller;  in  other 
words,  to  ask  of  him  all  that  religion  alone  can  give.  So  the 
art  is  still  practiced  in  spite  of  a  certain  amount  of  risk.  The 
eighteenth-century  encyclopaedists  procured  tolerance  for  the 
sorcerer,  he  is  no  longer  amenable  to  a  court  of  law,  unless, 
indeed,  he  lends  himself  to  fraudulent  practices,  and  frightens 
his  "clients"  to  extort  money  from  them,  in  which  case  he 
maybe  prosecuted  on  a  charge  of  obtaining  money  under  false 
pretenses.  Unluckily,  the  exercise  of  the  sublime  art  is  only 
too  often  used  as  a  method  of  obtaining  money  under  false 
pretenses,  and  for  the  following  reasons  : 

The  seer's  wonderful  gifts  are  usually  bestowed  upon  those 
who  are  described  by  the  epithets  rough  and  uneducated. 
The  rough  and  uneducated  are  the  chosen  vessels  into  which 
(}od  pours  the  elixirs  at  which  we  marvel.  From  among  the 
rough  and  uneducated,  prophets  arise — an  Apostle  Peter,  or 
St.  Peter  the  Hermit.  Wherever  mental  power  is  imprisoned, 
and  remains  intact  and  entire  for  want  of  an  outlet  in  conver- 
sation, in  politics,  in  literature,  in  the  imaginings  of  the 
scholar,  in  the  efforts  of  the  statesman,  in  the  conceptions  of 
the  inventor,  or  the  soldier's  toils  of  war;  the  fire  within  is 


COUSIN  PONS.  219 

apt  to  flash  out  in  gleams  of  niarvelously  vivid  liglu,  like  the 
sparks  hidden  in  an  unpolished  diamond.  Let  the  occasion 
come,  and  the  spirit  within  kindles  and  glows,  finds  wings  to 
traverse  space,  and  the  god-like  power  of  beholding  all  things. 
The  coal  of  yesterday,  under  the  play  of  some  mysterious  in- 
fluence, becomes  a  radiant  diamond.  Better  educated  people, 
many-sided  and  highly  polished,  continually  giving  out  all 
that  is  in  them,  can  never  exhibit  this  supreme  power,  save  by 
one  of  the  miracles  which  God  sometimes  vouchsafes  to  work. 
For  this  reason  the  soothsayer  is  almost  always  a  beggar,  whose 
mind  is  virgin  soil,  a  creature  coarse  to  all  appearance,  a  pebble 
borne  along  the  torrent  of  misery  and  left  in  the  ruts  of  life, 
where  it  spends  nothing  of  itself  save  in  mere  physical  suf- 
fering. 

The  prophet,  the  seer,  in  short,  is  some  "  Martin  le 
Laboureur"  making  a  Louis  XVIIL  tremble  by  telling  him  a 
secret  known  only  to  the  King  himself;  or  it  is  a  Mile.  Le- 
normand,  or  a  domestic  servant  like  Mme.  Fontaine,  or, 
again,  perhaps  it  is  some  half-idiotic  negress,  some  herdsman 
living  among  his  cattle,  who  receives  the  gift  of  vision;  some 
Hindoo  fakir,  seated  by  a  pagoda,  mortifying  the  flesh  till  the 
spirit  gains  the  mysterious  power  of  the  somnambulist. 

Asia,  indeed,  through  all  time,  has  been  the  home  of  the 
heroes  of  occult  science.  Persons  of  this  kind,  recovering 
their  normal  state,  are  usually  just  as  they  were  before.  They 
fulfill,  in  some  sort,  the  chemical  and  physical  functions  of 
bodies  which  conduct  electricity;  at  times  inert  metal,  at 
other  times  a  channel  filled  with  a  mysterious  current.  In 
their  normal  condition  they  are  given  to  practices  which 
bring  them  before  the  magistrate,  yea,  verily,  like  the  no- 
torious Balthazar,  even  unto  the  criminal  court,  and  so  to 
the  hulks.  You  could  hardly  find  a  better  proof  of  the  im- 
mense influence  of  fortune-telling  upon  the  working-classes 
than  the  fact  that  poor  Pons'  life  and  death  hung  upon  the 
prediction  that  Mme.  Fontaine  was  to  make  from  the  cards. 


220  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

Although  a  certain  amount  of  repetition  is  inevitable  in  a 
canvas  so  considerable  and  so  full  of  detail  as  a  complete 
picture  of  French  society  in  the  nineteenth  century,  it  is 
needless  to  repeat  the  description  of  Mme.  Fontaine's  den, 
already  given  in  "Les  Comedians  sans  le  savoir;"  suffice 
it  to  say  that  Mme.  Cibot  used  to  go  to  Mme.  Fontaine's 
house  in  the  Rue  Vieille-du- Temple  as  regularly  as  fre- 
quenters of  the  Cafe  Anglais  drop  in  at  that  restaurant  for 
lunch.  Mme.  Cibot,  being  a  very  old  customer,  often  intro- 
duced young  persons  and  old  gossips  consumed  with  curiosity 
to  the  wise-woman. 

The  old  servant  who  acted  as  provost-marshal  flung  open 
the  door  of  the  sanctuary  with  no  further  ceremony  than 
the  remark  :  "  It's  Madame  Cibot.  Come  in,  there's  nobody 
here." 

"Well,  child,  what  can  bring  you  here  so  early  of  a  morn- 
ing?" asked  the  sorceress,  as  Mme.  Fontaine  might  well  be 
called,  for  she  was  seventy-eight  years  old,  and  looked  like 
one  of  the  Parcae. 

"Something  has  given  me  a  turn,"  said  La  Cibot;  "I 
want  \.\\Q  grand Jeu;^  it  is  a  question  of  my  fortune."  There- 
v/ith  she  explained  her  position,  and  wished  to  know  if  her 
sordid  hopes  were  likely  to  be  realized. 

"Do  you  know  what  X\\q  grand  Jeu  means?"  asked  Mme. 
Fontaine,  with  much  solemnity. 

"  No.  I  haven't  never  seen  the  trick,  I  am  not  rich  enough. 
A  hundred  francs!  It's  not  as  if  it  cost  so  much!  Where 
was  the  money  to  come  from  ?  But  now  I  can't  help  my- 
self, I  must  have  it." 

"I  don't  do  it  often,  child,"  returned  Mme.  Fontaine;  "I 
only  do  it  for  rich  people  on  great  occasions,  and  they  pay 
me  twenty-five  louis  for  doing  it ;  it  tires  me,  you  see,  it 
wears  me  out.  The  '  Spirit '  rives  my  inside,  here.  It  is 
like  going  to  the  '  Sabbath,'  as  they  used  to  say." 

*  The  Great  Play;  i.  j.,  all  that  can  be  known. 


A     COID     THRILL     RAN     THROUGH     M  M  E.    ClBOT. 


COUSIN  PONS.  .221 

"  But  when  I  tell  you  that  it  means  my  whole  future,  my 
dear  good  Ma'am  Fontaine " 

"  Well,  as  it  is  you  that  have  come  to  consult  me  so  often, 
I  will  submit  myself  to  the  Spirit  !  "  replied  Mme.  Fontaine, 
with  a  look  of  genuine  terror  on  her  face. 

She  rose  from  her  filthy  old  chair  by  the  fireside,  and  went 
to  a  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth  so  worn  that  you  could 
count  the  threads.  A  huge  toad  sat  dozing  there  beside  a 
cage  inhabited  by  a  black  disheveled-looking  fowl. 

"Astaroth!  here,  my  son!"  she  said,  and  the  creature 
looked  up  intelligently  at  her  as  she  rapped  him  on  the  back 
with  a  long  knitting-needle.  "And  you,  Mademoiselle  Cleo- 
patre  ! — attention  !  "  she  continued,  tapping  the  ancient  fowl 
on  the  beak. 

Then  Mme.  Fontaine  began  to  think ;  for  several  seconds 
she  did  not  move;  she  looked  like  a  corpse,  her  eyes  rolled 
in  their  sockets  and  grew  white ;  then  she  rose  stiff  and  erect, 
and  a  cavernous  voice  cried — 

"Here  I  am  !  " 

Automatically  she  scattered  millet  for  Cleopatra,  took  up 
the  pack  of  cards,  shufiled  tliem  convulsively,  and  held  them 
out  to  Mme.  Cibot  to  cut,  sighing  heavily  all  the  time.  At 
the  sight  of  that  image  of  Death  in  the  filthy  turban  and  un- 
canny looking  bed-jacket,  watching  the  black-fowl  as  it  pecked 
at  the  millet-grains,  calling  to  the  toad  Astaroth  to  walk  over 
the  cards  that  lay  out  on  the  table,  a  cold  thrill  ran  through 
Mme.  Cibot ;  she  shuddered.  Nothing  but  strong  belief  can 
give  strong  emotions.  An  assured  income,  to  be  or  not  to 
be,  that  was  the  question. 

The  sorceress  opened  a  magical  work  and  muttered  some 
unintelligible  words  in  a  sepulchral  voice,  looked  at  the  re- 
maining millet-seeds,  and  watched  the  way  in  which  the  toad 
retired.  Then  after  seven  or  eight  minutes,  she  turned  her 
white  eyes  on  the  cards  and  expounded  them. 

"You  will  succeed,  although  nothing  in  the  affair  will  fall 


222  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

out  as  you  expect.  You  will  have  many  steps  to  take,  but 
you  will  reap  tiie  fruits  of  your  labors.  You  will  behave  very 
badly ;  it  will  be  with  you  as  it  is  with  all  those  who  sit  by  a 
sick-bed  and  covet  part  of  the  inheritance.  Great  people  will 
help  you  in  this  work  of  wrongdoing.  Afterward  in  the  death- 
agony  you  will  repent.  Two  escaped  convicts,  a  short  man 
with  red  hair  and  an  old  man  with  a  bald  head,  will  murder 
you  for  the  sake  of  the  money  you  will  be  supposed  to  have  in 
the  village  whither  you  will  retire  with  your  second  husband. 
Now,  my  daughter,  it  is  still  open  to  you  to  choose  your 
course. ' ' 

The  excitement  which  seemed  to  glow  within,  lighting  up 
the  bony  hollows  about  the  eyes,  was  suddenly  extinguished. 
As  soon  as  the  horoscope  was  pronounced,  Mme.  Fontaine's 
face  wore  a  dazed  expression  ;  she  looked  exactly  like  a  sleep- 
walker aroused  from  sleep,  gazed  about  her  with  an  astonished 
air,  recognized  Mme.  Cibot,  and  seemed  surprised  by  her 
terrified  face. 

"Well,  child,"  she  said,  in  a  totally  different  voice,  ''are 
you  satisfied  ?  " 

Mme.  Cibot  stared  stupidly  at  the  sorceress,  and  could  not 
answer. 

"Ah!  you  would  have  the  grand jeu;  I  have  treated  you 
as  an  old  acquaintance.  I  only  want  a  hundred  francs  instead 
of " 

"  Cibot — going  to  die  ?  "  gasped  the  portress. 

"  So  I  have  been  telling  you  very  dreadful  things,  have  I  ?  " 
asked  Mme.  Fontaine,  with  an  extremely  ingenuous  air. 

"Why,  yes  !  "  said  La  Cibot,  taking  a  hundred  francs  from 
her  pocket  and  laying  them  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 
"Going  to  be  murdered,  think  of  it " 

"Ah!  there  it  is!  You  would  have  the  grand  jeu;  but 
don't  take  on  so,  all  the  people  that  are  murdered  on  the 
cards  don't  die." 

"But  is  it  possible,  Ma'am  Fontaine?" 


COUSIN  PONS.  223 

"Oh,  /know  nothing  about  it,  my  pretty  dear!  You 
would  rap  at  the  door  of  the  future ;  I  pull  the  cord,  and  It 
came." 

''//,  what?"  asked  Mme.  Cibot. 

"  Well,  then,  the  Spirit  !  "  cried  the  sorceress  impatiently. 

"  Good-by,  Ma'am  Fontaine,"  exclaimed  the  portress.  "I 
did  not  know  what  the  grand  jeu  was  like.  You  have  given 
me  a  good  fright,  that  you  have." 

"The  mistress  will  not  put  herself  in  that  state  twice  in  a 
month,"  said  the  servant,  as  she  went  with  La  Cibot  to  the 
landing.  "She  would  do  herself  to  death  if  she  did,  it  tires 
her  so.  She  will  eat  cutlets  now  and  sleep  for  three  hours 
afterward." 

Out  in  the  street,  La  Cibot  took  counsel  of  herself  as  she 
went  along,  and,  after  the  manner  of  all  who  ask  for  advice  of 
any  sort  or  description,  she  took  the  favorable  part  of  the  pre- 
diction and  rejected  the  rest.  The  next  day  found  her  con- 
firmed in  her  resolutions — she  would  set  all  in  train  to  become 
rich  by  securing  a  part  of  Pons'  collection.  Nor  for  some 
time  had  she  any  other  thought  than  the  combination  of 
various  plans  to  this  end.  The  faculty  of  self-concentration 
seen  in  rough  uneducated  persons,  explained  on  a  previous 
page,  the  reserve  power  accumulated  in  those  whose  mental 
energies  are  unworn  by  the  daily  wear  and  tear  of  social  life, 
and  brought  into  action  so  soon  as  that  terrible  weapon  the 
"fixed  idea"  is  brought  into  play — all  this  was  preeminently 
manifested  in  La  Cibot.  Even  as  the  "fixed  idea"  works 
miracles  of  evasion,  and  brings  forth  prodigies  of  sentiment, 
so  greed  transformed  the  portress  till  she  became  as  formidable 
as  a  Nucingen  at  bay,  as  subtle  beneath  her  seeming  stupidity 
as  the  irresistible  La  Palferine. 

About  seven  o'clock  one  morning,  a  few  days  afterward, 
she  saw  Remonencq  taking  down  his  shutters.  She  went 
across  to  him. 

"How  could  one  find  out  how  much  the  things  yonder  in 


224  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

my  gentlemen's  rooms  are  worth  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  wheedling 
tone. 

"Oh!  that  is  quite  easy,"  replied  the  owner  of  the  old 
curiosity  shop.  "  If  you  will  play  fair  and  above-board  with 
me,  I  will  tell  you  of  somebody,  a  very  honest  man,  who  will 
know  the  value  of  the  pictures  to  a  centime " 

"Who?" 

"  Monsieur  Magus,  a  Jew.  He  only  does  business  to  amuse 
himself  now." 

Elie  Magus  has  appeared  so  often  in  the  Comedie  Humaine 
that  it  is  needless  to  say  more  of  him  here.  Suffice  it  to  add 
that  he  had  retired  from  business,  and  as  a  dealer  was  follow- 
ing the  example  set  by  Pons  the  amateur.  Well-known  valuers 
like  Henry,  Messrs.  Pigeot  and  Moret,  Theret,  Georges,  and 
Roehn,  the  experts  of  the  Musee  in  fact,  were  but  children 
compared  with  Elie  Magus.  He  could  see  a  masterpiece 
beneath  the  accumulated  grime  of  a  century ;  he  knew  all 
schools  and  the  handwriting  of  all  painters. 

He  had  come  to  Paris  from  Bordeaux,  and  so  long  ago  as  ' 
1S35  he  had  retired  from  business  without  making  any  change 
for  the  better  in  his  dress,  so  faithful  is  the  race  to  old  tradi- 
tion. Tlie  persecutions  of  the  Middle  Ages  compelled  them 
to  wear  rags,  to  snuffle  and  whine  and  groan  over  their  poverty 
in  self-defense,  till  the  habits  induced  by  the  necessities  of 
other  times  have  come  to  be,  as  usual,  instinctive,  a  racial 
defect. 

Elie  Magus  had  amassed  a  vast  fortune  by  buying  and  sell- 
ing the  diamonds,  pictures,  lace,  enamels,  delicate  carvings, 
old  jewelry,  and  rarities  of  all  kinds,  a  kind  of  commerce 
which  has  developed  enormously  of  late,  so  much  so  indeed 
that  the  number  of  dealers  has  increased  tenfold  during  the  last 
twenty  years  in  this  city  of  Paris,  whither  all  the  curiosities 
in  the  world  come  to  rub  against  one  another.  And  for  pic- 
tures there  are  but  three  marts  in  the  world — Rome,  London, 
and  Paris. 


COUSIN  PONS.  225 

Elie  Magus  lived  in  the  Chaussee  des  Minimes,  a  short, 
broad  street  leading  to  the  Place  Royale.  He  had  bought 
the  house,  an  old-fashioned  mansion,  for  a  song,  as  the  saying 
is,  in  1S31.  Yet  there  were  sumptuous  apartments  within 
it,  decorated  in  the  time  of  Louis  XV.;  for  it  had  once  been 
the  Hotel  Maulaincourt,  built  by  the  great  president  of  the 
Cour  des  Aides,  and  its  remote  position  had  saved  it  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution. 

You  may  be  quite  sure  that  the  old  Jew  had  sound  reasons 
for  buying  house  property,  contrary  to  the  Hebrew  law  and 
custom.     He  had  ended,  as  most  of  us  end,  with  a  hobby  that 
bordered  on  a  craze.     He  was  as  miserly  as  his  friend  the  late 
lamented  Gobseck ;  but  he  had  been  caught  by  the  snare  of 
the  eyes,  by  the  beauty  of  the  pictures  in  which  he  dealt.     As 
his  taste  grew  more  and  more  fastidious,  it  became  one  of  the 
passions    which    princes   alone   can    indulge    when    they  are 
wealthy  and  art-lovers.     As  the  second  King  of  Prussia  found 
nothing    that  so   kindled   enthusiasm  as  the  spectacle  of  a 
grenadier  over  six  feet  high,  and  gave  extravagant  sums  for  a 
new  specimen  to  add  to  his  living  museum  of  a  regiment,  so 
the  retired  picture-dealer  was  roused  to  passion-pitch  only  by 
some   canvas    in    perfect    preservation,  untouched   since   the 
master  laid  down  the  brush ;  and  what  was  more,  it  must  be 
a  picture  of  the  painter's  best  time.     No  great  sales,  there- 
fore, took  place  but  Elie  Magus  was  there ;  every  mart  knew 
him,   he   traveled  all    over    Europe.     The    ice-cold,  money- 
worshiping  soul  in  him  kindled  at  the  sight  of  a  perfect  work 
of  art,  precisely  as  a  libertine,  weary  of  fair  women,  is  roused 
from  apathy  by  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  girl,  and  sets  out 
afresh  upon   the  quest  of  flawless  loveliness.     A  Don  Juan 
among    fair   works   of  art,  a   worshiper   of  the   Ideal,  Elie 
Magus  had  discovered  joys  that  transcend  the  pleasure  of  the 
miser  gloating  over  his  gold — he  lived  in  a  seraglio  of  great 
paintings. 

His  masterpieces  were  housed  as  became  the  children  of 
15 


226  THE  POOR  PA  RENTS. 

princes;   the  whole  second  floor  of  the  great  old  mansion  was 
given  up  to  them. 

The  rooms  had  been  restored  under  Elie  Magnus'  orders, 
and  with  what  magnificence  ! 

The  windows  were  hung  with  the  richest  Venetian  brocade  ; 
the  most  splendid  carpets  from  the  Savonnerie  covered  the 
parquetry  flooring.  The  frames  of  the  pictures,  nearly  a  hun- 
dred in  number,  were  magnificent  specimens,  regilded  cun- 
ningly by  Servais,  the  one  gilder  in  Paris  whom  Elie  Magus 
thought  sufficiently  painstaking ;  the  old  Jew  himself  had 
taught  him  to  use  the  English  leaf,  which  is  infinitely  superior 
to  that  produced  by  French  gold-beaters.  Servais  is  among 
gilders  as  Thouvenin  among  bookbinders — an  artist  among 
craftsmen,  making  his  work  a  labor  of  love.  Every  window 
in  that  gallery  was  protected  by  iron-barred  shutters.  Elie 
Magus  himself  lived  in  a  couple  of  attics  on  the  floor  above; 
the  furniture  was  wretched,  the  rooms  were  full  of  rags,  and 
the  whole  place  smacked  of  the  Ghetto ;  Elie  Magus  was 
finishing  his  days  without  any  change  in  his  life. 

The  whole  of  the  first  floor  was  given  up  to  the  picture 
trade  (for  the  Jew  still  dealt  in  works  of  art).  Here  he  stored 
his  paintings,  here  also  packing-cases  were  stowed  on  their 
arrival  from  other  countries;  and  still  there  was  room  for  a 
vast  studio,  where  Moret,  most  skillful  of  restorers  of  pictures, 
a  craftsman  whom  the  Musee  ought  to  employ,  was  almost 
always  at  work  for  Magus.  The  rest  of  the  rooms  on  the  first 
floor  were  given  up  to  Magus'  daughter,  the  child  of  his  old 
age,  a  Jewess  beautiful  as  a  Jewess  can  be  when  the  Semitic 
type  reappears  in  its  purity  and  nobility  in  a  daughter  of  Israel. 
Noemi  was  guarded  by  two  servants,  fanatical  Jewesses,  to  say 
nothing  of  an  advanced-guard,  a  Polish  Jew,  Abramko  by 
name,  once  involved  in  a  fabulous  manner  in  political  troubles, 
from  which  Elie  Magus  saved  him  as  a  business  speculation. 
Abramko,  janitor  of  the  silent,  grim,  deserted  mansion, 
divided  hjs  office  and  his  lodge  with  three  remarkably  fero- 


CO  us IX  POXS.  227 

cious  animals — an  English  bull-dog,  a  Newfoundland  dog,  and 
another  of  the  Pyrenean  breed. 

Behold  the  profound  observations  of  human  nature  upon 
which  Elie  Magus  based  his  feeling  of  security,  for  secure  he 
felt ;  he  left  home  without  misgivings,  slept  with  both  ears 
shut,  and  feared  no  attempt  upon  his  daughter  (his  chief  trea- 
sure), his  pictures,  nor  his  money.  In  the  first  place,  Ab- 
ramko's  salary  was  increased  every  year  by  two  hundred 
francs  so  long  as  his  master  should  live ;  and  Magus,  more- 
over, was  training  Abramko  as  a  money-lender  in  a  small  way. 
Abramko  never  admitted  anybody  until  he  had  surveyed  them 
through  a  formidable  grated  opening.  He  was  a  Hercules  for 
strength,  he  worshiped  Elie  Magus,  as  Sancho  Panza  wor- 
shiped Don  Quixote.  All  day  long  the  dogs  were  shut  up  with- 
out food;  at  nightfall  Abramko  let  them  loose;  and  by  a  cun- 
ning device  the  old  Jew  kept  each  animal  at  his  post  in  the 
courtyard  or  the  garden  by  hanging  a  piece  of  meat  just  out 
of  reach  on  the  top  of  a  pole.  The  animals  guarded  the  house, 
and  sheer  hunger  guarded  the  dogs.  No  odor  that  reached 
their  nostrils  could  tempt  them  from  the  neighborhood  of 
that  piece  of  meat ;  they  would  not  have  left  their  places  at 
the  foot  of  the  poles  for  the  most  engaging  female  of  the  canine 
species.  If  a  stranger  by  any  chance  intruded,  the  dogs  sus- 
pected him  of  ulterior  designs  upon  their  rations,  which  were 
only  taken  down  in  the  morning  by  Abramko  himself  when 
he  awoke.     The  advantages  of  this  fiendish  scheme  are  patent. 

The  animals  never  barked,  Magus'  ingenuity  had  made 
savages  of  them  ;  they  were  treacherous  as  Mohicans.  And 
now  for  the  result. 

One  night  burglars,  emboldened  by  the  silence,  decided  too 
hastily  that  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  "  clean  out  "  the  old 
Jew's  strong  box.  One  of  their  number  told  off  to  advance 
to  the  assault  scrambled  up  the  garden-wall  and  prepared  to 
descend.  This  the  bull-dog  allowed  him  to  do.  The  animal, 
knowing   perfectly  well   what   was  coming,    waited   for   the 


228  -    THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

burglar  to  reach  the  ground  ;  but  when  that  gentleman  directed 
a  kick  at  him,  the  bull-dog  flew  at  the  visitor's  shins,  and, 
making  but  one  bite  of  it,  snapped  the  ankle-bone  clean  in  two. 
The  tliief  had  the  courage  to  tear  himself  away,  and  returned, 
walking  upon  the  bare  bone  of  the  mutilated  stump  till  he 
reached  the  rest  of  the  gang,  when  he  fell  fainting,  and  they 
carried  him  off.  The  "Police  News,"  of  course,  did  not  fail 
to  report  this  delightful  night  incident,  but  no  one  believed 
in  it. 

Magus  at  this  time  was  seventy-five  years  old,  and  there  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  not  live  to  a  hundred.  Rich  man 
though  he  was,  he  lived  like  the  Remonencqs.  His  necessary 
expenses,  including  the  money  he  lavished  on  his  daughter, 
did  not  exceed  three  thousand  francs.  No  life  could  be  more 
regular  ;  the  old  man  rose  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  breakfasted 
on  bread  rubbed  with  a  clove  of  garlic,  and  ate  no  more  food 
until  dinner-time.  Dinner,  a  meal  frugal  enough  for  a  con- 
vent, he  took  at  home.  All  the  forenoon  he  spent  among  his 
treasures,  walking  up  and  down  the  gallery  where  they  hung 
in  their  glory.  He  would  dust  everything  himself,  furniture 
and  pictures  ;  he  never  wearied  of  admiring.  Then  he  would 
go  downstairs  to  his  daughter,  drink  deep  of  a  father's  happi- 
ness, and  start  out  upon  his  walk  through  Paris,  to  attend  sales 
or  visit  exhibitions  and  the  like. 

If  Elie  Magus  found  a  great  work  of  art  under  the  right 
conditions,  the  discovery  put  new  life  into  the  man  ;  here  was 
a  bit  of  sharp  practice,  a  bargain  to  make,  a  battle  of  Marengo 
to  win.  He  would  pile  ruse  on  ruse  to  buy  the  new  sultana 
as  cheaply  as  possible.  Magus  had  a  map  of  Europe  on  which 
all  great  pictures  were  marked ;  his  co-religionists  in  every 
city  spied  out  business  for  him,  and  received  a  commission  on 
the  purchase.  And  then — what  rewards  for  all  his  pains ! 
The  two  lost  Raphaels  so  earnestly  sought  after  by  Raphael- 
lovers  are  both  in  his  collection.  Elie  Magus  owns  the  origi- 
nal portrait  of  Giorgione's  Mistress,  the  woman  for  whom  the 


COUSIN  PONS.  229 

painter  died  ;  the  so-called  originals  are  merely  copies  of  the 
famous  picture,  which  is  worth  five  hundred  thousand  francs, 
according  to  its  owner's  estimation.  This  Jew  possesses 
Titian's  masterpiece,  an  Entombment  painted  for  Charles  V., 
sent  by  the  great  man  to  the  great  Emperor  with  a  holograph 
letter,  now  fastened  down  upon  the  lower  part  of  the  canvas. 
And  Magus  has  yet  another  Titian,  the  original  sketch  from 
which  all  the  portraits  of  Philip  II.  were  painted.  His  re- 
maining ninety-seven  pictures  are  all  of  the  same  rank  and 
distinction.  Wherefore  Magus  laughs  at  our  national  collec- 
tion, raked  by  the  sunlight  which  destroys  the  fairest  paintings, 
pouring  in  through  panes  of  glass  that  act  as  lenses.  Picture 
galleries  can  only  be  lighted  from  above  ;^  Magus  opens  and 
closes  his  shutters  himself;  he  is  as  careful  of  his  pictures  as  of 
his  daughter,  his  second  idol.  And  well  the  old  picture- 
fancier  knows  the  laws  of  the  lives  of  pictures.  To  hear  him 
talk,  a  great  picture  has  a  life  of  its  own  ;  it  is  changeable,  it 
takes  its  beauty  from  the  color  of  the  light.  Magus  talks  of 
his  paintings  as  Dutch  fanciers  used  to  talk  of  their  tulips;  he 
will  come  home  on  purpose  to  see  some  one  picture  in  the 
hour  of  its  glory,  when  the  light  is  bright  and  clean. 

And  Magus  himself  was  a  living  picture  among  the  motion- 
less figures  on  the  wall — a  little  old  man,  dressed  in  a  shabby 
overcoat,  a  silk  vest,  renev/ed  twice  in  a  score  of  years,  and  a 
very  dirty  pair  of  trousers ;  with  a  bald  head,  a  face  full  of 
deep  hollows,  a  wrinkled  callous  skin,  a  beard  that  had  a  trick 
of  twitching  its  long  white  bristles,  a  menacing  pointed  chin, 
a  toothless  mouth,  eyes  bright  as  the  eyes  of  his  dogs  in  the 
yard,  a  nose  like  an  obelisk — there  he  stood  in  his  gallery 
smiling  at  the  beauty  called  into  being  by  genius.  A  Jew 
surrounded  by  his  millions  will  always  be  one  of  the  finest 
spectacles  which  humanity  can  give.  Robert  Medal,  our 
great  actor,  cannot  rise  to  this  height  of  poetry,  sublime 
though  he  is. 

*  AH  Parisian  Fine  Art  Museums,  etc.,  are  so  lighted  now. 


230  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

Paris  of  all  the  cities  of  the  world  holds  most  of  such  men 
as  Magus,  strange  beings  with  a  strange  religion  in  their  heart 
of  hearts.  The  London  "eccentric"  always  finds  that  wor- 
ship, like  life,  brings  weariness  and  satiety  in  the  end ;  the 
Parisian  monomaniac  lives  cheerfully  in  concubinage  with  his 
crotchet  to  the  last. 

Often  shall  you  meet  in  Paris  some  Pons,  some  Elie  Magus, 
dressed  badly  enough,  with  his  face  turned  from  the  rising  sun 
(like  the  countenance  of  the  perpetual  secretary  of  the  Acad- 
emy), apparently  heeding  nothing,  conscious  of  nothing,  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  store-windows,  nor  to  fair  passers-by, 
walking  at  random,  so  to  speak,  with  nothing  in  his  pockets, 
and  to  all  appearance  an  equally  empty  head.  Do  you  ask  to 
what  Parisian  tribe  this  manner  of  man  belongs?  He  is  a 
collector,  a  millionaire,  one  of  the  most  impassioned  souls  on 
earth ;  he  and  his  like  are  capable  of  treading  the  miry  ways 
that  lead  to  the  police  court  if  so  they  may  gain  possession  of 
a  cup,  a  picture,  or  some  such  rare  unpublished  piece  as  Elie 
Magus  once  picked  up  one  memorable  day  in  Germany. 

This  was  the  expert  to  whom  Remonencq  with  much  mys- 
tery conducted  La  Cibot.  Remonencq  always  asked  advice 
of  Elie  Magus  when  he  met  him  in  the  streets  ;  and  more  than 
once  Magus  had  lent  him  money  through  Abramko,  knowing 
Remonencq's  honesty.  The  Chaussee  des  Minimes  is  close 
to  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  and  the  two  fellow-conspirators 
reached  the  house  in  ten  minutes. 

"  You  will  see  the  richest  dealer  in  curiosities,  the  greatest 
connoisseur  in  Paris,"  Remonencq  had  said.  And  Mme. 
Cibot,  therefore,  was  struck  dumb  with  amazement  to  be  con- 
fronted with  a  little  old  man  in  a  greatcoat  too  shabby  for 
Cibot  to  mend,  standing  watching  a  painter  at  work  upon  an 
old  picture  in  the  chilly  room  on  the  vast  first  floor.  The  old 
man's  eyes,  full  of  cold  feline  malignance,  were  turned  upon 
her,  and  La  Cibot  shivered. 

"  What  do  you  want,  Remonencq?"  asked  this  person. 


COUSIN  PONS.  231 

''  It  is  a  question  of  valuing  some  pictures ;  there  is  nobody 
but  you  in  Paris  who  can  tell  a  poor  tinker-fellow  like  me  how 
mucii  he  may  give  when  he  has  not  thousands  to  spend,  like 
you." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  Here  is  the  portress  of  the  house  where  the  gentleman 
lives ;  she  does  for  him,  and  I  have  arranged  with  her " 

''  Who  is  the  owner  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Pons  !  "  put  in  La  Cibot. 

"Don't  know  the  name,"  said  Magus,  with  an  innocent 
air,  bringing  down  his  foot  very  gently  upon  his  artist's  toes. 

Moret  the  painter,  knowing  the  value  of  Pons'  collection, 
had  looked  up  suddenly  at  the  name.  It  was  a  move  too 
hazardous  to  try  with  any  one  but  Remonencq  and  La  Cibot, 
but  the  Jew  had  taken  the  woman's  measure  at  sight,  and  his 
eye  was  as  accurate  as  a  jeweler's  scales.  It  was  impossible 
that  either  of  the  couple  should  know  how  often  Magus  and 
old  Pons  had  matched  their  claws.  And,  in  truth,  both  rabid 
amateurs  were  jealous  of  each  other.  The  old  Jew  had  never 
hoped  for  a  sight  of  a  seraglio  so  carefully  guarded  ;  it  seemed 
to  him  that  his  head  was  swimming.  Pons'  collection  was  the 
one  private  collection  in  Paris  which  could  vie  with  his  own. 
Pons'  idea  had  occurred  to  Magus  twenty  years  later ;  but  as  a 
dealer-amateur  the  door  of  Pons'  museum  had  been  closed  for 
him,  as  for  Dusommerard.  Pons  and  Magus  had  at  heart  the 
same  jealousy.  Neither  of  them  cared  about  the  kind  of  ce- 
lebrity dear  to  the  ordinary  collector.  And  now  for  Elie 
Magus  came  his  chance  to  see  the  poor  musician's  treasures  ! 
An  amateur  of  beauty  hiding  in  a  boudoir  for  a  stolen  glance 
at  a  mistress  concealed  from  him  by  his  friend  might  feel  as 
Elie  Magus  felt  at  that  moment. 

La  Cibot  was  impressed  by  Remonencq's  respect  for  this 
singular  person  ;  real  power,  moreover,  even  when  it  cannot 
be  explained,  is  always  felt ;  the  portress  was  supple  and  obe- 
dient, she  dropped  the  autocratic  tone  which  she  was  wont  to 


222  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

use  in  her  lodge  and  with  the  tenants,  accepted  Magus'  con- 
ditions, and  agreed  to  admit  him  into  Pons'  museum  that  very 
day. 

So  the  enemy  was  to  be  brought  into  the  citadel,  and  a  stab 
dealt  to  Pons'  very  heart.  For  ten  years  Pons  had  carried 
his  keys  about  with  him  \  he  had  forbidden  La  Cibot  to 
allow  any  one,  no  matter  whom,  to  cross  his  threshold  ;  and 
La  Cibot  had  so  far  shared  Schmucke's  opinions  of  bric-a-brac, 
that  she  had  obeyed  him.  The  good  Schmucke,  by  speaking 
of  the  splendors  as  "  chimcracks,"  and  deploring  his  friend's 
mania,  had  taught  La  Cibot  to  despise  the  old  rubbish,  and 
so  secured  Pons'  museum  from  invasion  for  many  a  long 
year. 

When  Pons  took  to  his  bed,  Schmucke  filled  his  place  at 
the  theatre  and  gave  lessons  for  him  at  his  boarding-schools. 
He  did  his  utmost  to  do  the  work  of  two  ;  but  with  Pons'  sor- 
rows weighing  heavily  upon  his  mind,  the  task  took  all  his 
strength.  He  only  saw  his  friend  in  the  morning,  and  again 
at  dinner-time.  His  pupils  and  the  people  at  the  theatre, 
seeing  the  poor  German  look  so  unhappy,  used  to  ask  for  news 
of  Pons  ;  and  so  great  was  his  grief,  that  the  indifferent  would 
make  the  grimaces  of  sensibility  which  Parisians  are  wont  to 
reserve  for  the  greatest  calamities.  The  very  springs  of  life 
had  been  attacked,  the  good  German  was  suffering  from  Pons' 
pain  as  well  as  from  his  own.  When  he  gave  a  music-lesson, 
he  spent  half  the  time  in  talking  of  Pons,  interrupting  himself 
to  wonder  whether  his  friend  felt  better  to-day,  and  the  little 
school-girls  listening  heard  lengthy  explanations  of  Pons'  symp- 
toms. He  would  rush  over  to  the  Rue  de  Norraandie  in  the 
interval  between  two  lessons  for  the  sake  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  with  Pons. 

When  at  last  he  saw  that  their  common  stock  was  almost 
exhausted,  when  Mme.  Cibot  (v/ho  had  done  her  best  to  swell 
the  expenses  of  the  illness)  came  to  him  and  frightened  him ; 
then  the  old  music-master  felt  that  he  had  courage  of  which 


COUSIN  PONS.  233 

he  never  thought  himself  capable — courage  that  rose  above 
his  anguish.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  set  himself  to 
earn  money  ;  money  was  needed  at  home.  One  of  the  school- 
girl pupils,  really  touched  by  their  troubles,  asked  Schmucke 
how  he  could  leave  his  friend  alone.  "  Montemoiselle,"  he 
answered,  with  the  sublime  smile  of  those  who  think  no  evil, 
"ve  haf  Montame  Zipod,  ein  dreasure,  montemoiselle,  ein 
bearl  !     Bons  is  nursed  like  ein  brince." 

So  while  Schmucke  trotted  about  the  streets.  La  Cibot  was 
mistress  of  the  house  and  ruled  the  invalid.  How  should 
Pons  superintend  his  self-appointed  guardian  angel,  when  he 
had  taken  no  solid  food  for  a  fortnight,  and  lay  there  so  weak 
and  helpless  that  La  Cibot  was  obliged  to  lift  him  up  and 
carry  him  to  the  sofa  wliile  she  made  the  bed? 

La  Cibot's  visit  to  Elie  Magus  was  paid  (as  might  be  ex- 
pected) while  Schmucke  breakfasted.  She  came  in  again  just 
as  the  German  was  bidding  his  friend  good-by ;  for  since  she 
learned  that  Pons  possessed  a  fortune,  she  never  left  the  old 
bachelor  ;  she  brooded  over  him  and  his  treasures  like  a  hen. 
From  the  depths  of  a  comfortable  easy-chair  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  she  poured  forth  for  Pons'  delectation  the  gossip  in 
which  women  of  her  class  excel.  With  Machiavellian  skill, 
she  had  contrived  to  make  Pons  think  that  she  was  indispens- 
able to  him  ;  she  coaxed  and  she  wheedled,  always  uneasy,  al- 
ways on  the  alert.  Mme.  Fontaine's  prophecy  had  frightened 
La  Cibot;  she  vowed  to  herself  that  she  v.'ould  gain  her  ends 
by  kindness.  She  would  sleep  secure  on  M.  Pons'  legacy, 
but  her  rascality  should  keep  within  the  limits  of  the  law. 
For  ten  years  she  had  not  suspected  the  value  of  Pons'  collec- 
tion ;  she  had  a  clear  record  behind  her  of  ten  years  of  devo- 
tion, honesty,  and  disinterestedness;  it  was  a  magnificent 
investment,  and  now  she  proposed  to  realize.  In  one  day, 
Remonencq's  hint  of  money  had  hatched  the  serpent's  ^gg,  the 
craving  for  riches  that  had  lain  dormant  within  her  for  twenty 
years.     Since  she  had  cherished  that  craving,  it  had  grown  in 


234  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

force  with  the  ferment  of  all  the  evil  that  lurks  in  the  corners 
of  the  heart.  How  she  acted  upon  the  counsels  whispered 
by  the  serpent  will  presently  be  seen. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  asked  of  Schmucke,  "  has  this  cherub  of  ours 
had  plenty  to  drink  ?     Is  he  better  ?  ' ' 

"He  is  not  doing  fery  veil,  tear  Montame  Zipod,  not  fery 
veil,"  said  poor  Schmucke,  brushing  away  the  tears  from  his 
eyes. 

"Pooh!  you  make  too  much  of  it,  my  dear  Monsieur 
Schmucke ;  we  must  take  things  as  we  find  them ;  Cibot 
might  be  at  death's  door,  and  I  should  not  take  it  to  heart  as 
you  do.  Come  !  the  cherub  has  a  good  constitution.  And 
he  has  been  steady,  it  seems,  you  see  ;  you  have  no  idea  to 
what  an  age  sober  people  live.  He  is  very  ill,  it  is  true,  but 
with  all  the  care  T  take  of  him,  I  shall  bring  him  round.  Be 
easy,  look  after  your  affairs,  I  will  keep  him  company  and  see 
that  he  drinks  his  pints  of  barley-water." 

"  Gif  you  vere  not  here,  I  should  die  of  anxiety "  said 

Schmucke,  squeezing  his  kind  housekeeper's  hand  in  both  his 
own  to  express  his  confidence  in  her. 

La  Cibot  wiped  her  eyes  as  she  went  back  to  the  invalid's 
room. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Madame  Cibot?  "  asked  Pons,  seeing 
the  tears. 

"  It  is  Monsieur  Schmucke  that  has  upset  me;  he  is  crying 
as  if  you  were  dead,"  said  she.  "  If  you  are  not  well,  you 
are  not  so  bad  yet  that  nobody  need  cry  over  you ;  but  it  has 
given  me  such  a  turn  !  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  how  silly  it  is  of 
me  to  get  so  fond  of  people,  and  to  think  more  of  you  than 
of  Cibot !  For,  after  all,  you  ain't  nothing  to  me,  you  are 
only  my  brother  by  Adam's  side  ;  and  yet,  whenever  you  are 
in  the  question,  it  puts  me  in  such  a  taking,  upon  my  word  it 
does  1  I  would  cut  off  my  hand — my  left  hand,  of  course — 
to  see  you  coming  and  going,  eating  your  meals,  and  screwing 
bargains  out  of  dealers  as  usual.     If  I  had  had  a  child  of  my 


COUSIN  PONS.  2y> 

own,  I  think  I  should  have  loved  it  as  I  love  you,  eh !  There, 
take  a  drink,  dearie ;  come  now,  empty  the  glass.  Drink  it 
off,  monsieur,  I  tell  you  !  The  first  thing  Dr.  Poulain  said 
was,  '  If  Monsieur  Pons  has  no  mind  to  go  to  Pere  Lachaise, 
he  ought  to  drink  as  many  buckets  full  of  water  in  a  day  as  an 
Auvergnat  will  sell.'     So,  come  now,  drink " 

"  But  I  do  drink,  Cibot,  my  good  woman  ;  I  drink  and 
drink  till  I  am  deluged " 

"That  is  right,"  said  the  portress,  as  she  took  away  the 
empty  glass.  "That  is  the  way  to  get  better.  Dr.  Poulain 
had  another  patient,  ill  of  your  complaint ;  but  he  had  nobody 
to  look  after  him ;  his  children  left  him  to  himself,  and  he 
died  because  he  didn't  drink  enough — so  you  must  drink, 
honey,  you  see — he  died,  and  they  buried  him  two  months 
ago.  And  if  you  were  to  die,  you  know,  you  would  drag 
down  old  Monsieur  Schmucke  with  you,  sir.  He  is  like  a 
child.  iVh  !  he  loves  you,  he  does,  the  dear  lamb  of  a  man  ; 
no  woman  never  loved  a  man  like  that !  He  doesn't  care  for 
meat  nor  drink ;  he  has  grown  as  thin  as  you  are  in  the 
last  fortnight,  and  you  are  nothing  but  skin  and  bones.  It 
makes  me  jealous  to  see  it,  for  I  am  very  fond  of  you ;  but 
not  to  that  degree  ;  I  haven't  lost  my  appetite,  quite  the  other 
way ;  always  going  up  and  down  stairs,  till  my  legs  are  so 
tired  that  I  drop  down  of  an  evening  like  a  lump  of  lead. 
Here  am  I  neglecting  my  poor  Cibot  for  you ;  Mademoiselle 
Remonencq  cooks  his  victuals  for  him,  and  he  goes  on  about 
it  and  says  that  nothing  is  right  !  At  that  I  tell  him  that  one 
ought  to  put  up  with  something  for  the  sake  of  other  people,  and 
that  you  are  so  ill  that  I  cannot  leave  you.  In  the  first  place, 
you  can't  afford  a  nurse.  And  before  I  would  have  a  nurse 
here  ! — I  that  have  done  for  you  these  ten  years.  And  those 
nurses  are  such  eaters,  they  eat  enough  for  ten  ;  they  want 
wine,  and  sugar,  and  foot-warmers,  and  all  sorts  of  comforts. 
And  they  rob  their  patients  unless  the  patients  leave  them 
something  in  their  wills.     Have  a  niirse  in  here  to-day,  and 


236  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

to-morrow  we  should  find  a  picture  or  something  or  other 
gone " 

"Oh  !  Madame  Cibot  !  "  cried  Pons,  quite  beside  himself, 
"do  not  leave  me  !     No  one  must  touch  anything " 

"I  am  here,"  said  La  Cibot;  "so  long  as  I  have  the 
strength  I  shall  be  here.  Be  easy.  There  was  Dr.  Poulain 
wanting  to  get  a  nurse  for  you ;  perhaps  he  has  his  eye  on 
your  treasures.  I  just  snubbed  him,  I  did.  '  The  gentleman 
won't  have  nobody  but  me,'  I  told  him.  '  He  is  used  to  me, 
and  I  am  used  to  him.'  So  he  said  no  more.  A  nurse,  in- 
deed !  They  are  all  thieves  ;  I  hate  that  sort  of  woman,  I  do. 
Here  is  a  tale  tiiat  will  show  you  how  sly  they  are.  There 
was  once  an  old  gentleman — it  was  Dr.  Poulain  himself,  mind 
you,  who  told  me  this — well,  a  Madame  Sabatier,  a  woman  of 
thirty-six  that  used  to  sell  slippers  at  the  Palais  Royal — you 
remember  the  Galerie  at  the  Palais  that  they  pulled  down?" 

Pons  nodded. 

"  Well,  at  that  time  she  had  not  done  very  well ;  her  hus- 
band used  to  drink,  and  died  of  spontaneous  imbustion  ;  but 
she  had  been  a  fine  woman  in  her  time,  truth  to  tell,  not  that 
it  did  her  any  good,  though  she  had  friends  among  the  lawyer- 
folks.  So,  being  hard  up,  she  became  a  monthly  nurse,  and 
lived  in  the  Rue  Barre-du-Bec.  Well,  she  went  out  to  nurse  an 
old  gentleman  that  had  a  disease  of  the  lurinary  guts  (saving 
your  presence)  ;  they  used  to  tap  him  like  an  artesian  well,  and 
he  needed  such  care  that  she  used  to  sleep  on  a  truckle-bed  in 
the  same  room  with  him.  You  would  hardly  believe  such  a 
thing  !  '  Men  respect  nothing,'  you'll  tell  me,  'so  selfish  as 
they  are.'  Well,  she  used  to  talk  with  him,  you  understand  ; 
she  never  left  him,  she  amused  liim,  she  told  him  stories,  she 
drew  him  on  to  talk  (just  as  we  are  chatting  away  together 
now,  you  and  I,  eh  ?),  and  she  found  out  that  his  nephews — 
the  old  gentleman  had  nephews — that  his  nephews  were 
wretches  ;  they  had  worried  him,  and,  final  end  of  it,  they  had 
brought  on  this  illness.     Well,  my  dear  sir,  she  saved  his  life, 


COUSIN  PONS.  237 

he  married  her,  and  they  have  a  fine  child  ;  Ma'am  Bordevin, 
the  butcher's  wife  in  the  Rue  Chariot,  a  relative  of  hers,  stood 
godmother.     There  is  luck  for  you  ! 

"As  for  me,  I  am  married;  and  if  I  have  no  children,  I 
don't  mind  saying  that  it  is  Cibot's  fault;  he  is  too  fond  of 
me,  but  if  I  cared — never  mind.  What  would  have  become 
of  me  and  my  Cibot  if  we  had  had  a  family,  when  we  have 
not  a  sou  to  bless  ourselves  with  after  thirty  years  of  faithful 
service  ?  I  have  not  a  centime  belonging  to  nobody  else, 
that  is  what  comforts  me.  I  have  never  wronged  nobody. 
Look  here,  suppose  now  (there  is  no  harm  in  supposing  when 
you  will  be  out  and  about  again  in  six  weeks'  time,  and  saun- 
tering along  the  boulevard)  ;  well,  suppose  that  you  had  put 
me  down  in  your  will ;  very  good,  I  shouldn't  never  rest  till 
I  had  found  your  heirs  and  given  the  money  back.  Such  is 
my  horror  of  anything  that  is  not  earned  by  the  sweat  of  my 
brow. 

'•  You  will  say  to  me,  '  Why,  Madame  Cibot,  why  should 
you  worry  yourself  like  that  ?  You  have  fairly  earned  the 
money ;  you  looked  after  your  two  gentlemen  as  if  they  had 
been  your  children  ;  you  saved  them  a  thousand  francs  a 
year — '  (for  there  are  plenty,  sir,  you  know,  that  would  have 
had  their  ten  thousand  francs  put  out  to  interest  by  now  if 
they  had  been  in  my  place) — 'so  if  the  worthy  gentleman 
leaves  you  a  trifle  of  an  annuity,  it  is  only  right.'  Suppose 
they  told  me  that.  Well,  no ;  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself. 
I  cannot  think  how  some  women  can  do  a  kindness  tliinking 
of  themselves  all  the  time.  It  ain't  doing  good,  sir,  is  it?  I 
do  not  go  to  church  myself,  I  haven't  the  time  ;  but  my  con- 
science tells  me  what  is  right Don't  you  fidget  like  that, 

my  lamb!  Don't  scratch  yourself!  Dear  me,  how  yellow 
you  have  growed  !  So  yellow  you  are — quite  brown.  How 
funny  it  is  that  one  can  come  to  look  like  a  lemon  in  three 

weeks  ! Honesty  is  all  that  poor  people  has,  and  one 

must  surely  have  something  !     Suppose  that  you  were  just  at 


238  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

death's  door,  I  should  be  the  first  to  tell  you  that  you  ought 
to  leave  all  that  you  have  to  Monsieur  Schmucke.  It  is  your 
duty,  for  he  is  all  the  family  you  have.  He  loves  you,  he 
does,  as  a  dog  loves  his  master." 

"Ah!  yes,"  said  Pons;  **  nobody  else  has  ever  loved  me 
all  my  life  long " 

''Ah!  that  is  not  kind  of  you,  sir,"  said  Mme.  Cibot; 
"  then  I  do  not  love  you,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  say  so,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot." 

"  Good.  You  take  me  for  a  servant,  do  you,  a  common 
servant,  as  if  I  hadn't  got  no  heart  !  Goodness  me  !  for 
eleven  years  you  do  for  two  old  bachelors,  you  think  of  noth- 
ing but  their  comfort.  I  have  turned  half  a  score  of  green- 
grocers' stalls  upside  down  for  you,  I  have  talked  people 
round  to  get  you  good  Brie  cheese  ;  I  have  gone  down  as  far 
as  the  market  for  fresh  butter  for  you  ;  I  have  taken  such 
care  of  things  that  nothing  of  yours  hasn't  been  chipped  nor 
broken  in  all  these  ten  years ;  I  have  just  treated  you  like  my 
own  children  ;  and  then  to  hear  a  '  My  dear  Madame  Cibot,' 
that  shows  that  there  is  not  a  bit  of  feeling  for  you  in  the 
heart  of  an  old  gentleman  that  you  have  cared  for  like  a 
king's  son  I  for  the  little  King  of  Rome  was  not  so  well  cared 
for  as  you  have  been.  You  may  bet  that  he  was  not  as  well 
looked  after.  He  died  in  his  prime;  there  is  proof  for  you. 
Come,  sir,  you  are  unjust !  You  are  ungrateful  !  It  is  be- 
cause I  am  only  a  poor  portress.  Goodness  me  !  are  yoii  one 
of  those  that  think  we  are  dogs? " 

"  But,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot " 

"Indeed,  you  that  know  so  much,  tell  me  why  we  porters 
are  treated  like  this,  and  ain't  supposed  to  have  no  feelings; 
people  look  down  on  us  in  these  days  when  they  talks  of 
Equality  !  As  for  me,  am  I  not  as  good  as  another  woman,  I 
that  was  one  of  the  finest  women  in  Paris,  and  was  called 
La  belle  Ecailiere^-  and  received  declarations  seven  or  eight 
*  The  handsome  oyster-opener. 


COUSIN  PONS.  239 

times  a  day?     And  even  now  if  I  liked Look  here,  sir, 

you  know  that  little  scrubby  marine-store-dealer  downstairs? 
Very  well,  he  would  marry  me  any  day,  if  I  were  a  widow, 
that  is,  with  his  eyes  shut ;  he  has  had  them  looking  wide 
open  in  my  direction  so  often  ;  he  is  always  saying,  '  Oh  ! 
what  fine  arms  you  have,  Ma'am  Cibot  !  I  dreamed  last  night 
that  it  was  bread  and  I  was  butter,  and  I  was  spread  on  the 
top  of  you.'     Look,  sir,  there  is  an  arm  !  " 

She  rolled  up  her  sleeve  and  displayed  the  shapeliest  arm 
imaginable,  as  white  and  fresh  as  her  hand  was  red  and  rough ; 
a  plump,  round,  dimpled  arm,  drawn  from  its  merino  sheath 
like  a  blade  from  the  scabbard  to  dazzle  Pons,  who  looked 
away. 

"  For  every  oyster  the  knife  opened,  that  arm  has  opened 
a  heart  !  Well,  it  belongs  to  Cibot,  and  I  did  wrong  when  I 
neglected  him,  poor  dear  ;  he  would  throw  himself  over  a 
precipice  at  a  word  from  me  ;  while  you,  sir,  that  call  me 
*  My  dear  Madame  Cibot,' when  I  do  impossible  things  for 
you " 

"Do  just  listen  to  me,"  broke  in  the  patient;  "I  cannot 
call  you  my  mother,  nor  my  wife " 

"  No,  never  in  all  my  born  days  will  I  take  again  to  any- 
body  " 

"  Do  let  me  speak  !  "  continued  Pons,  "  Let  us  see ;  I  put 
Monsieur  Schmucke  first " 

"  Monsieur  Schmucke  !  there  is  a  heart  for  you  !  "  cried  La 
Cibot.  "Ah  !  he  loves  me,  but  then  he  is  poor.  It  is  money 
that  deadens  the  heart ;  and  you  are  rich  !  Oh,  well  take  a 
nurse,  you  will  see  what  a  life  she  will  lead  you ;  she  will  tor- 
ment you,  you  will  be  like  a  cockchafer  on  a  string.  The 
doctor  will  say  that  you  must  have  plenty  to  drink,  and  she 
will  do  nothing  but  feed  you.  She  will  bring  you  to  your 
grave  and  rob  you.  You  do  not  deserve  to  have  a  Madame 
Cibot !  there  !  When  Dr.  Poulain  comes,  ask  him  for  a 
nurse." 


240  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

"■  Oh  fiddlestick,  stop  !  "  the  patient  cried  angrily.  "  Will 
you  listen  to  me  ?  When  I  spoke  of  my  friend  Schmucke,  I 
was  not  thinking  of  women.  I  know  quite  well  that  no  one 
cares  for  me  so  sincerely  as  you  do,  you  and  Schmucke " 

"  Have  the  goodness  not  to  irritate  yourself  in  this  way  !  " 
exclaimed  La  Cibet,  plunging  down  upon  Pons  and  covering 
him  by  force  with  the  bedclothes. 

"  How  should  I  not  love  you  ?  "  said  poor  Pons. 

"You  love  me,  really?  There,  there,  forgive  me,  sir!" 
she  said,  crying  and  wiping  her  eyes.  "Ah,  yes,  of  course, 
you  love  me,  as  you  love  a  servant,  that  is  the  way  ! — a  servant 
to  whom  you  throw  an  annuity  of  six  hundred  francs  like  a 
crust  you  fling  into  a  dog's  kennel " 

"  Oh  !  Madame  Cibot,"  cried  Pons,  "  for  what  do  you  take 
me?     You  do  not  know  me." 

"Ah  !  you  will  care  even  more  than  that  for  me,"  she  said, 
meeting  Pons'  eyes.  "  You  will  love  your  kind  old  Cibot  like 
a  mother,  will  you  not  ?     A  mother,  that  is  it  !     I  am  your 

mother ;  you  are  both  of  you  my  children Ah,  if  I  only 

knew  them  that  caused  you  this  sorrow,  I  would  do  that  which 
would  bring  me  into  the  police  courts,  and  even  to  prison ;  I 
would  scratch  their  eyes  out  !  Such  people  deserve  to  die  at 
the  Barri6re  Saint-Jacques,  and  that  is  too  good  for  such 
scoundrels.  So  kind,  so  good  as  you  are  (for  you  have  a  heart 
of  gold),  you  were  sent  into  the  world  to  make  some  woman 
happy  !  Yes,  you  would  have  her  happy,  as  anybody  can  see ; 
you  were  cut  out  for  that.  In  the  very  beginning,  when  I 
saw  how  you  were  with  Monsieur  Schmucke,  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Monsieur  Pons  has  missed  the  life  he  was  meant  for ;  he  was 
made  to  be  a  good  husband.'     Come,  now,  you  like  women." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Pons,  "and  no  woman  has  been  mine." 

"Really?  "  exclaimed  La  Cibot,  with  a  provocative  air  as 
she  came  nearer  and  took  Pons'  hand  in  hers.  "  Do  you  not 
know  what  it  is  to  love  a  woman  that  will  do  anything  for  her 
lover?     Is  it  possible?     If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  not 


COUSIN  PONS.  241 

wish  to  leave  this  world  for  another  until  I  had  known  the 
greatest  happiness  on  earth  !  Poor  dear  !  If  I  was  now  what  I 
was  once,  I  would  leave  Cibot  for  you !  upon  my  word,  I  would ! 
Why,  with  a  nose  shaped  like  that — for  you  have  a  fine  nose 
— how  did  you  manage  it,  poor  cherub?  You  will  tell  me 
that  '  not  every  woman  knows  a  man  when  she  sees  him  ; '  and 
a  pity  it  is  that  they  marry  so  at  random  as  they  do,  it  makes 
you  sorry  to  see  it.  Now,  for  my  own  part,  I  should  have 
thought  that  you  had  had  mistresses  by  the  dozen — dancers, 
actresses,  and  duchesses,  for  you  went  out  so  much.  When 
you  went  out,  I  used  to  say  to  Cibot,  '  Look  !  there  is  Mon- 
sieur Pons  going  a-gallivanting ;  '  on  my  word,  I  did,  I  was  so 
sure  that  women  ran  after  you.  Heaven  made  you  for  love. 
Why,  my  dear  sir,  I  found  that  out  the  first  day  that  you 
dined  at  home,  and  you  were  so  touched  with  Monsieur 
Schmucke's  pleasure.  And  next  day  Monsieur  Schmucke 
kept  saying  to  me,  '  Montame  Zipod,  he  haf  tined  hier,'  with 
the  tears  in  his  eyes,  till  I  cried  along  with  him  like  a  fool,  as  I 
am.  And  how  sad  he  looked  when  you  took  to  gadding  abroad 
again  and  dining  out !  Poor  man,  you  never  saw  any  one 
so  disconsolate  !  Ah  !  you  are  quite  right  to  leave  everything 
to  him.  Dear,  worthy  man,  why,  he  is  as  good  as  a  family  to 
you,  he  is !  Do  not  forget  him  ;  for  if  you  do,  God  will  not 
receive  you  into  His  paradise,  for  those  that  have  been  un- 
grateful to  their  friends  and  left  them  no  rentes  will  not  go  to 
heaven." 

In  vain  Pons  tried  to  put  in  a  word  ;  La  Cibot  talked  as  the 
wind  blows.  Means  of  arresting  steam-engines  have  been 
invented,  but  it  would  tax  a  mechanician's  genius  to  discover 
any  plan  for  stopping  a  portress*  tongue. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  continued  she.  "But  it  does 
not  kill  you,  my  dear  gentleman,  to  make  a  will  when  you  are 
out  of  health ;  and  in  your  place  I  would  not  leave  that  poor 
dear  alone,  for  fear  that  something  might  happen  ;  he  is  like 
God  Almightv's  lamb,  he  knows  nothing  about  nothing,  and  I 
16 


242  Tint   POOR   PARENTS. 

should  not  like  him  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  those  sharks  of 
lawyers  and  a  wretched  pack  of  relations.  Let  us  see  now, 
has  one  of  them  come  here  to  see  you  in  twenty  years?  And 
would  you  leave  your  property  to  them  ?  Do  you  know,  they 
say  that  all  these  things  here  are  worth  something." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Pons. 

"  Remonencq,  who  deals  in  pictures,  and  knows  that  you 
are  an  amateur,  says  that  he  would  be  quite  ready  to  pay  you 
an  annuity  of  thirty  thousand  francs  so  long  as  you  live,  to 
have  the  pictures  afterward.  There  is  a  chance  !  If  I  were 
you,  I  should  take  it.  Why,  I  thought  he  said  it  for  a  joke 
when  he  told  me  that.  You  ought  to  let  Monsieur  Schmucke 
know  the  value  of  all  those  things,  for  he  is  a  man  that  could 
be  cheated  like  a  child.  He  has  not  the  slightest  idea  of  the 
value  of  these  fine  things  that  you  have  !  He  so  little  suspects 
it,  that  he  would  give  them  away  for  a  morsel  of  bread  if  he 
did  not  keep  them  all  his  life  for  love  of  you  ;  always  supposing 
that  he  lives  after  you,  for  he  will  die  of  your  death.  But  / 
am  here  ;  I  will  take  his  part  against  anybody  and  everybody ! 
I  and  Cibot  will  defend  him." 

"Dear  Madame  Cibot!"  said  Pons,  "what  would  have 
become  of  me  if  it  had  not  been  for  you  and  Schmucke?" 
He  felt  touched  by  this  horrible  prattle  ;  the  feeling  in  it 
seemed  to  be  ingenuous,  as  it  usually  is  in  the  speech  of  the 
people. 

"Ah  !  we  really  are  your  only  friends  on  earth,  that  is  very 
true,  that  is.  But  two  good  hearts  are  worth  all  the  families 
in  the  world.  Don't  talk  of  families  to.  me!  A  family,  as 
the  old  actor  said  of  the  tongue,  is  the  best  and  the  worst  of 
all  things.  Where  are  those  relations  of  yours  now?  Have 
you  any?     I  have  never  seen  them " 

"They  have  brought  me  to  lie  here,"  said  Pons,  with  in- 
tense bitterness. 

"So  you  have  relations! "  cried  La  Cibot,  springing 

up  as  if  her  easy-chair  had  been  heated  red-hot.     "  Oh,  well, 


COUSIN  PONS.  243 

they  are  a  nice  lot,  are  your  relations  !  What !  these  three 
weeks — for  this  is  the  twentieth  day,  to-day,  that  you  have 
been  ill  and  like  to  die — in  these  three  weeks  they  have  not 
come  once  to  ask  for  news  of  you?  That's  a  trifle  too  strong, 
that  is  !  Why,  in  your  place,  I  would  leave  all  I  had  to  the 
Foundling  Hospital  sooner  than  give  them  one  centime!  " 

"Well,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot,  I  meant  to  leave  all  that 
I  had  to  a  first  cousin  once  removed,  the  daughter  of  my  first 
cousin.  President  Camusot,  you  know,  who  came  here  one 
morning  nearly  two  months  ago." 

"  Oh  !  a  little  stout  man  who  sent  his  servants  to  beg  your 
pardon — for  his  wife's  blunder  ?  The  housemaid  came  asking 
me  questions  about  you,  an  affected  old  creature  she  is,  my 
fingers  itched  to  give  her  velvet  tippet  a  dusting  with  my 
broom  handle  !  A  servant  wearing  a  velvet  tippet !  did  any- 
body ever  see  the  like?  No,  upon  my  word,  the  world  is 
turned  upside  down  ;  what  is  the  use  of  making  a  Revolution  ? 
Dine  twice  a  day  if  you  can  afford  it,  you  scamps  of  rich  folk  ! 
But  laws  are  no  good,  I  tell  you,  and  nothing  will  be  safe  if 
Louis-Philippe  does  not  keep  people  in  their  places ;  for,  after 
all,  if  we  are  all  equal,  eli,  sir?  a  housemaid  didn't  ought  to 
have  a  velvet  tippet,  while  I,  Madame  Cibot,  haven't  one, 
after  thirty  years  of  honest  work.  There  is  a  pretty  thing  for 
you  !  People  ought  to  be  able  to  tell  who  you  are.  A  house- 
maid is  a  housemaid,  just  as  I  myself  am  a  portress.  Why  do 
they  have  silk  epaulettes  in  the  army?  Let  everybody  keep 
their  place.  Look  here,  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  what  all 
this  comes  to?  Very  well,  France  is  going  to  the  dogs.  If 
the  Emperor  had  been  here,  things  would  have  been  very 
different,  wouldn't  they,  sir?  So  I  said  to  Cibot,  I  said, 
*  See  here,  Cibot,  a  house  where  the  servants  wear  velvet  tip- 
pets belongs  to  people  that  have  no  heart  in  them '  " 

"No  heart  in  them,  that  is  just  it,"  repeated  Pons.  And 
with  that  he  began  to  tell  Mme.  Cibot  about  his  troubles  and 
mortifications,  she  pouring  out  abuse  of  the  relations  the  while 


244  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

and  showing  exceeding  tenderness  on  every  fresh  sentence  in 
the  sad  history. 

She  fairly  wept  at  last. 

To  understand  the  sudden  intimacy  between  the  old  musi- 
cian and  Mme.  Cibot,  you  have  only  to  imagine  the  position 
of  an  old  bachelor  lying  on  his  bed  of  pain,  seriously  ill  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life.  Pons  felt  that  he  was  alone  in  the 
world ;  the  days  that  he  spent  by  himself  were  all  the  longer 
because  he  was  struggling  with  the  indefinable  nausea  of  a 
liver  complaint  which  blackens  the  brightest  life.  Cut  off 
from  all  his  many  interests,  the  sufferer  falls  a  victim  to  a 
kind  of  nostalgia;  he  regrets  the  sparkling  boulevards,  the 
many  sights  to  be  seen  for  nothing  in  Paris.  The  isolation, 
the  darkened  days,  the  suff'ering  that  aff'ects  the  mind  and 
spirits  even  more  than  the  body,  the  emptiness  of  the  life — all 
these  things  tend  to  induce  him  to  cling  to  the  human  being 
who  waits  on  him  as  a  drowned  man  clings  to  a  plank ;  and 
this  especially  if  the  bachelor  patient's  character  is  as  weak  as 
his  nature  is  sensitive  and  credulous. 

Pons  was  charmed  to  hear  La  Cibot's  tittle-tattle.  Schmucke, 
Mme.  Cibot,  and  Dr.  Poulain  meant  all  humanity  to  him  now, 
when  his  sickroom  became  the  universe.  If  invalids'  thoughts, 
as  a  rule,  never  travel  beyond  in  the  little  space  over  which 
their  eyes  can  wander;  if  their  selfishness,  in  its  narrow 
sphere,  subordinates  all  creatures  and  all  things  to  itself,  you 
can  imagine  the  lengths  to  which  an  old  bachelor  may  go. 
Before  three  weeks  were  out  he  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to 
regret,  once  and  again,  that  he  had  not  -married  Madeleine 
Vivet  !  Mme.  Cibot,  too,  had  made  immense  progress  in  his 
esteem  in  those  three  weeks ;  without  her  he  felt  that  he 
should  have  been  utterly  lost;  for  as  for  Schmucke,  tlie  poor 
invalid  looked  upon  him  as  a  second  Pons.  La  Cibot's  pro- 
digious art  consisted  in  expressing  Pons'  own  ideas,  and  this 
she  did  quite  unconsciously. 

"  Ah  !  here  comes  the  doctor  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  the  bell 


COUSIN  PONS.  245 

rang,  and  away  she  went,  knowing  very  well  tliat  Remonencq 
had  come  with  the  Jew. 

"Make  no  noise,  gentlemen,"  said  she,  "he  must  not 
know  anything.  He  is  all  on  the  fidget  when  his  precious 
treasures  are  concerned," 

"A  walk  round  will  be  enough,"  said  the  Hebrew,  armed 
with  a  magnifying.glass  and  a  lorgnette. 

The  greater  part  of  Pons'  collection  was  installed  in  a  great 
old-fashioned  salon  such  as  French  architects  used  to  build  for 
the  old  noblesse ;  a  room  twenty-five  feet  broad,  some  thirty 
feet  in  length,  and  thirteen  in  height.  Pons'  pictures  to  the 
number  of  sixty-seven  hung  upon  the  white-and-gold  paneled 
walls  ;  time,  however,  had  reddened  the  gold  and  softened 
the  white  to  an  ivory  tint,  so  that  the  whole  was  toned  down, 
and  the  general  effect  subordinated  to  the  effect  of  the  pic- 
tures. Fourteen  statues  stood  on  pedestals  set  in  the  corners 
of  the  room,  or  among  the  pictures,  or  on  brackets  inlaid  by 
Boule  ;  sideboards  of  carved  ebony,  royally  rich,  surrounded 
the  walls  to  elbow  height,  all  the  shelves  filled  with  curiosi- 
ties ;  in  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  row  of  carved  cre- 
dence-tables, covered  with  rare  miracles  of  handicraft — with 
ivories  and  bronzes,  wood-carvings  and  enamels,  jewelry  and 
porcelain. 

As  soon  as  Elie  Magus  entered  the  sanctuary,  he  went 
straight  to  the  four  masterpices  ;  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  these 
were  the  gems  of  Pons'  collection,  and  masters  lacking  in  his 
own.  For  Elie  Magus  these  were  the  naturalist's  desiderata 
for  which  men  undertake  long  voyages  from  east  to  west, 
through  deserts  and  tropical  countries,  across  southern  savan- 
nas, through  virgin  forests. 

The  first  was  a  painting  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  the  sec- 
ond a  Fra  Bartolommeo  della  Porta,  the  third  a  Hobbema 
landscape,  and  the  fourth  and  last  a  Durer — a  portrait  of  a 
woman.  Four  diamonds  indeed  !  In  the  history  of  art, 
Sebastian  del  Piombo  is  like  a  shining  point  in  which  three 


246  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

schools  meet,  each  bringing  its  preeminent  qualities.  A 
Venetian  painter,  he  went  to  Rome  to  learn  the  manner  of 
Raphael  under  the  direction  of  Michael  Angelo,  who  would 
fain  oppose  Raphael  on  his  own  ground  by  pitting  one  of  his 
own  lieutenants  againt  the  reigning  king  of  art.  And  so  it 
came  to  pass  tliat  in  del  Piombo's  indolent  genius  Venetian 
color  was  blended  with  Florentine  composition  and  a  some- 
thing of  Raphael's  manner  in  the  few  pictures  which  he 
deigned  to  paint,  and  the  sketches  were  made  for  him,  it  is 
said,  by  Michael  Angelo  himself. 

If  you  would  see  the  perfection  to  which  the  painter  at- 
tained (armed  as  he  was  with  triple  power),  go  to  the  Louvre 
and  look  at  the  Baccio  Bandinelli  portrait ;  you  might  place 
it  beside  Titian's  Man  with  a  Glove,  or  bv  that  other  Portrait 
of  an  Old  Man  in  which  Raphael's  consummate  skill  blends 
with  Coreggio's  art ;  or,  again,  compare  it  with  Lionardo  da 
Vinci's  Charles  VIII.,  and  the  picture  would  scarcely  lose. 
The  four  pearls  are  equal ;  there  ii  the  same  lustre  and  sheen, 
the  same  rounded  completeness,  the  same  brilliancy.  Art  can 
go  no  further  than  this.  Art  has  risen  above  Nature,  since 
Nature  only  gives  her  creatures  a  few  brief  years  of  life. 

Pons  possessed  one  example  of  this  immortal,  great  genius 
and  incurably  indolent  painter;  it  was  a  Knight  of  Malta,  a 
Templar  kneeling  in  prayer.  The  picture  was  painted  on 
slate,  and  in  its  unfaded  color  and  its  finish  was  immeasurably 
finer  than  the  Baccio  Bandinelli. 

Fra  Bartolommeo  was  represented  by  a  Holy  Family,  which 
many  connoisseurs  might  have  taken  for.  a  Raphael.  The 
Hobbema  would  have  fetched  sixty  thousand  francs  at  a 
public  sale ;  and  as  for  the  Diirer,  it  was  equal  to  the  famous 
Holzschuer  portrait  at  Nuremberg  for  which  the  Kings  of 
Bavaria,  Holland,  and  Prussia  have  vainly  offered  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  again  and  again.  Was  it  the  portrait  of 
the  wife  or  the  daughter  of  Holzschuer,  Albrecht  Diirer's  per- 
sonal friend?     The  hypothesis  seems  to  be  a  certainty,  for 


COUSIN  PONS.  247 

the  altitude  of  the  figure  in  Pons'  picture  suggests  iliat  it  is 
meant  for  a  pendant,  the  position  of  the  coat-of-arms  is  the 
same  as  in  the  Nuremberg  portrait ;  and,  finally,  the  atatis 
suce  XLI.  accords  perfectly  with  the  age  inscribed  on  the 
picture  religiously  kept  by  the  Holzschuers  of  Nuremberg, 
and  but  recently  engraved. 

The  tears  stood  in  Elie  Magus'  eyes  as  he  looked  from  one 
masterpiece  to  another.  He  turned  round  to  La  Cibot :  "I 
will  give  you  a  commission  of  two  thousand  francs  on  each  of 
the  pictures  if  you  can  arrange  that  I  shall  have  them  for  forty 
thousand  francs,"  he  said.  La  Cibot  was  amazed  at  this  good 
fortune  dropped  from  the  sky.  Admiration,  or,  to  be  more 
accurate,  delirious  joy,  had  wrought  such  havoc  in  the  Jew's 
brain,  that  it  had  actually  unsettled  his  habitual  greed,  and 
he  fell  headlong  into  enthusiasm,  as  you  see. 

"And  I? "    put    in  Remonencq,    who  knew  nothing 

about  pictures. 

"  Everything  here  is  equally  good,"  the  Jew  said  cunningly, 
lowering  his  voice  for  Remonencq's  ear;  "  take  ten  pictures 
just  as  they  come  and  on  the  same  conditions.  Your  fortune 
will  be  made." 

Again  the  three  thieves  looked  each  other  in  the  face,  each 
one  of  them  overcome  with  the  keenest  of  all  joys — sated 
greed.  All  of  a  sudden  the  sick  man's  voice  rang  through 
the  room ;  the  tones  vibrated  like  the  strokes  of  a  bell — 

"Who  is  there?"  called  Pons. 

"  Monsieur!  just  go  back  to  bed  !  "  exclaimed  La  Cibot, 
springing  upon  Pons  and  dragging  him  by  main  force. 
"What  next!  Have  you  a  mind  to  kill  yourself?  Very 
well,  then,  it  is  not  Dr.  Poulain,  it  is  Remonencq,  good  soul, 
so  anxious  that  he  has  come  to  ask  after  you  !  Everybody  is 
so  fond  of  you  that  the  whole  house  is  in  a  fiutter.  So  what 
is  there  to  fear  ?  ' ' 

"It  seems  to  me  that  there  are  several  of  you,"  said  Pons. 

"Several?  that  is  good  !    What  next !    Are  you  dreaming? 


248  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

You  will  go  off  your  head  before  you  have  done,  upon  my 
word!  Here,  look!" — and  La  Cibot  flung  open  the  door, 
signed  to  Magus  to  go,  and  beckoned  to  Remonencq. 

"Well,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  Auvergnat,  now  supplied 
with  something  to  say,  "  I  just  came  to  ask  after  you,  for  the 
whole  house  is  alarmed  about  you.  Nobody  likes  death  to 
set  foot  in  a  house  !  And  lastly,  Daddy  Monistrol,  whom 
you  know  very  well,  told  me  to  tell  you  that  if  you  wanted 
money  he  was  at  your  service " 

"He  sent  you  here  to  take  a  look  round  at  my  knick- 
knacks!"  returned  the  old  collector  from  his  bed;  and  the 
sour  tones  of  his  voice  were  full  of  suspicion. 

A  sufferer  from  liver  complaint  nearly  always  takes  momen- 
tary and  special  dislikes  to  some  person  or  thing,  and  concen- 
trates all  his  ill-humor  upon  the  object.  Pons  imagined  that 
some  one  had  designs  upon  his  precious  collection ;  the 
thought  of  guarding  it  became  a  fixed  idea  with  him ; 
Schmucke  was  continually  sent  to  see  if  any  one  had  stolen 
into  the  sanctuary. 

"Your  collection  is  fine  enough  to  attract  the  attention  of 
chineursj'^  Remonencq  answered  astutely.  "I  am  not  much 
in  the  art  line  myself;  but  you  are  supposed  to  be  such  a  great 
connoisseur,  sir,  that,  little  as  I  know,  I  would  willingly  buy 
your  collection,  sir,  with  my  eyes  shut — supposing,  for  instance, 
that  you  should  need  money  some  time  or  other,  for  nothing 
costs  so  much  as  these  confounded  illnesses;  there  was  my 
sister  now,  when  she  had  a  bad  turn,  she  spent  thirty  sous  on 
medicine  in  ten  days,  when  she  would  have  got  better  again 
just  as  well  without.  Doctors  are  rascals  that  take  advantage 
of  your  condition  to " 

"Thank  you,  good-day,  good-day,"  broke  in  Pons,  eying 
the  marine-store-dealer  uneasily. 

"I  will  go  to  the  door  with  him,  for  fear  he  should  touch 
something,"  La  Cibot  whispered  to  her  patient. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  the  invalid,  thanking  her  by  a  glance. 


COUSIN  PONS.  249 

La  Cibot  shut  the  bedroom  door  behind  her,  and  Pons' 
suspicions  awoke  again  at  once. 

She  found  Magus  standing  motionless  before  the  four  pictures. 
His  immobility,  his  admiration,  can  only  be  understood  by 
other  souls  open  to  ideal  beauty,  to  the  ineffable  joy  of  be- 
holding art  made  perfect :  such  as  these  can  stand  for  whole 
hours  before  the  Antiope — Correggio's  masterpieces — before 
Lionardo's  Gioconda,  Titian's  Mistress,  Andrea  del  Sarto's 
Holy  Family,  Domenichino's  Children  among  the  Flowers, 
Raphael's  little  cameo,  or  his  Portrait  of  an  Old  Man — Art's 
greatest  masterpieces. 

"Be  quick  and  go,  and  make  no  noise,"  said  La  Cibot. 

The  Jew  walked  slowly  backward,  giving  the  pictures  such 
a  farewell  gaze  as  a  lover  gives  his  love.  Outside,  on  the 
landing,  La  Cibot  tapped  his  bony  arm.  His  rapt  contem- 
plation had  put  an  idea  into  her  head. 

*'  Make  it.  four  thousand  francs  for  each  picture,"  said  she, 
"or  I  do  nothing " 

"  I  am  so  poor  ! "  began  Magus.     "  I  want  the  pictures, 

simply  for  their  own  sake,  simply  and  solely  for  the  love  of 
art,  my  dear  lady." 

"  I  can  understand  that  love,  sonny,  you  are  so  dried  up. 
But  if  you  do  not  promise  me  sixteen  thousand  francs  now, 
before  Remonencq  here,  I  shall  want  twenty  to-morrow." 

"  Sixteen  ;  I  promise,"  returned  the  Jew,  frightened  by  the 
woman's  rapacity. 

La  Cibot  turned  to  Remonencq. 

"  What  oath  can  a  Jew  swear?  "  she  inquired. 

"You  may  trust  him,"  replied  the  marine-store-dealer. 
"  He  is  as  honest  as  I  am." 

"  Very  well  ;  and  you  ?  "  asked  she,  "  if  I  get  him  to  sell 
them  to  you,  what  will  you  give  me?  " 

"Half-share  of  profits,"  Remonencq  answered  briskly. 

'•I  would  rather  have  a  lump  sum,"  returned  La  Cibot; 
"  I  am  not  in  business  myself." 


250  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

"You  understand  business  uncommonly  well!"  put  in 
Elie  Magus,  smiling;  "a  famous  saleswoman  you  would 
make  !  " 

"I  want  her  to  take  me  into  partnership,  me  and  ray 
goods,"  said  the  Auvergnat,  as  he  took  La  Cibot's  plump  arm 
and  gave  it  playful  taps  like  hammer-strokes.  "  I  don't  ask 
her  to  bring  anything  into  the  firm  but  her  good  looks  !  You 
are  making  a  mistake  when  you  stick  to  your  Turk  of  a  Cibot 
and  his  needle.  Is  a  little  bit  of  a  porter  the  man  to  make  a 
woman  rich — a  fine  woman  like  you?  Ah,  what  a  figure  you 
would  make  in  a  store  on  the  boulevard,  all  among  the 
curiosities,  gossiping  with  amateurs  and  twisting  them  round 
your  fingers  !  Just  you  leave  your  lodge  as  soon  as  you  have 
lined  your  purse  here,  and  you  shall  see  what  will  become  of 
us  both." 

"  Lined  my  purse  !  "  cried  the  Cibot.  "  I  am  incapable  of 
taking  the  worth  of  a  single  pin  ;  mind  you  that  now,  Remon- 
encq  !  I  am  known  in  the  neighborhood  for  an  honest  woman, 
I  am." 

La  Cibot's  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"There,  never  mind,"  said  Elie  Magus ;  "  this  Auvergnat 
seems  to  be  too  fond  of  you  to  mean  to  insult  you." 

"  How  she  would  draw  on  the  customers !  "  cried  the 
Auvergnat. 

Mme.  Cibot  softened  at  this. 

"Be  fair,  sonnies,"  quoth  she,  "and  judge  for  yourselves 
how  I  am  placed.  These  ten  years  past  I  have  been  wearing 
my  life  out  for  those  two  old  bachelors,  yonder,  and  neither 
of  them  has  given  me  anything  but  words.  Remonencq  will 
tell  you  that  I  feed  them  by  contract,  and  lose  twenty  or 
thirty  sous  a  day ;  all  my  savings  have  gone  that  way,  by  the 
soul  of  my  mother  (the  only  author  of  my  days  that  I  ever 
knew),  this  is  as  true  as  that  I  live,  and  that  this  is  the  light 
of  day,  and  may  my  coffee  poison  me  if  I  lie  about  a  centime. 
Well,  there  is  one  up  there  that  will  die  soon,  eh  ?  and  he  the 


COUSIN  PONS.  2r,i 

richer  of  the  two  that  I  have  treated  like  my  own  children. 
Would  you  believe  it,  my  dear  sir,  I  have  told  him  over  and 
over  again  for  days  past  that  he  is  at  death's  door  (for  Dr. 
Poulain  has  given  him  up),  and  yet,  if  the  old  hunks  had 
never  heard  of  me,  he  could  not  say  less  about  putting  my 
name  down  in  his  will.  We  shall  only  get  our  due  by  taking 
it,  upon  my  word,  as  an  honest  woman,  for  as  for  trusting  to 
the  next-of-kin  ! — No  fear  !  There  !  look  you  here,  words 
don't  stink ;  it  is  a  bad  world  !  " 

"That  is  true,"  Elie  Magus  answered  cunningly,  "that  is 
true;  and  it  is  just  the  like  of  us  that  are  among  the  best,"  he 
added,  looking  at  Remonencq. 

"  Just  let  me  be,"  returned  La  Cibot ;  "  I  am  not  speaking 
of  you.  'Pressing  company  is  always  accepted,'  as  the  old 
actor  said.  I  swear  to  you  that  the  two  gentlemen  already 
owe  me  nearly  three  thousand  francs  ;  the  little  I  have  is  gone 
by  nov/  in  medicine  and  things  on  their  account ;  and  now 
suppose  they  refuse  to  recognize  my  advances?  I  am  so 
stupidly  honest  that  I  did  not  dare  to  say  nothing  to  them 
about  it.  Now,  you  that  are  in  business,  my  dear  sir,  do  you 
advise  me  to  go  to  a  lawyer?  " 

"A  lawyer?"  cried  Remonencq;  "  you  know  more  about 
it  than  all  the  lawyers  put  together " 

Just  at  that  moment  a  sound  echoed  in  the  great  staircase,  a 
thumping  sound  as  if  some  heavy  body  had  fallen  in  the  din- 
ing-room. 

"Oh,  goodness  me!"  exclaimed  La  Cibot;  "it  seems  to 
me  that  monsieur  has  just  taken  a  ticket  for  the  ground  floor." 

She  pushed  her  fellow-conspirators  out  at  the  door,  and 
while  the  pair  descended  the  stairs  with  remarkable  agility, 
she  ran  to  the  dining-room,  and  there  beheld  Pons,  in  his 
shirt,  stretched  out  upon  the  tiles.  He  had  fainted.  She 
lifted  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  feather,  carried  him  back  to  his 
room,  laid  him  in  bed,  burned  feathers  under  his  nose,  bathed 
his  temples  with  eau-de-Cologne,  and  at  last  brought  him  to 


252  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

consciousness.     When  she  saw  his  eyes  unclose  and  life  return, 
she  stood  over  him,  hands  on  hips. 

"No  slippers!  In  your  shirt!  That  is  the  way  to  kill 
yourself!  Why  do  you  suspect  me?  If  this  is  to  be  the  way 
of  it,  I  wish  you  good-day,  sir.  Here  have  I  served  you  these 
ten  years,  I  have  spent  money  on  you  till  my  savings  are  all 
gone,  to  spare  trouble  to  that  poor  Monsieur  Schmucke,  crying 
like  a  child  on  the  stairs — and  iJiis  is  my  reward  !  You  have 
been  spying  on  me.  God  has  punished  you  !  It  serves  you 
right !  Here  I  am  straining  myself  to  carry  you,  running  the 
risk  of  doing  myself  a  mischief  that  I  shall  feel  all  my  days. 
Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  and  the  door  left  open  too " 

"  You  were  talking  with  some  one.     Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Here  are  notions  !  "  cried  La  Cibot.  "  What  next !  Am 
I  your  bond-slave  ?  Am  I  to  give  account  of  myself  to  you  ? 
Do  you  know  that  if  you  bother  me  like  this,  I  shall  clear 
out !     You  shall  take  a  nurse." 

Frightened  by  this  threat,  Pons  unwittingly  allowed  La 
Cibot  to  see  the  extent  of  the  power  of  her  sword  of  Damo- 
cles. 

"It  is  my  illness  !  "  he  pleaded  piteously. 

"It  is  as  you  please,"  La  Cibot  answered  roughly. 

She  went.  Pons,  confused,  remorseful,  admiring  his  nurse's 
scolding  devotion,  reproached  himself  for  his  behavior.  The 
fall  on  the  paved  floor  of  the  dining-room  had  shaken  and 
bruised  him,  and  aggravated  his  illness,  but  Pons  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  his  physical  sufferings. 

La  Cibot  met  Schmucke  on  the  staircase. 

"Come  here,  sir,"  she  said.  "There  is  bad  news,  there 
is.  Monsieur  Pons  is  going  off  his  head  !  Just  think  of  it  ! 
he  got  up  with  nothing  on,  he  came  after  me — and  down  he 
came  full-length.  Ask  him  why — he  knows  nothing  about  it. 
He  is  in  a  bad  way,  I  did  nothing  to  provoke  such  violence, 
unless,  perhaps,  I  waked  up  ideas  by  talking  to  liim  of  his 
early  loves.     Who  knows  men  ?     Old  libertines  that  they  all 


COUSIN  PONS.  253 

are.  I  ought  not  to  have  shown  him  my  arms  when  his  eyes 
were  glittering  like  carhucklesy 

Schmucke  listened.  Mme.  Cibot  might  have  been  talking 
Hebrew  for  anything  that  he  understood. 

"I  have  given  myself  a  wrench  that  I  shall  feel  all  my 
days,"  added  she,  making  as  though  she  were  in  great  pain. 
(Her  arms  did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  ache  a  little,  and  the 
muscular  fatigue  suggested  an  idea,  which  she  proceeded  to 
turn  to  profit.)  "So  stupid  I  am.  When  I  saw  him  lying 
there  on  the  floor,  I  just  took  him  up  in  my  arms  as  if  he  had 
been  a  child,  and  carried  him  back  to  bed,  I  did.  And  I 
strained  myself,  I  can  feel  it  now.  Ah !  how  it  hurts !  I 
am  going  downstairs.  Look  after  our  patient.  I  will  send 
Cibot  for  Dr.  Poulain.  I  had  rather  die  outright  than  be 
crippled." 

La  Cibot  crawled  downstairs,  clinging  to  the  bannisters, 
and  writhing  and  groaning  so  piteously  that  the  tenants,  in 
alarm,  came  out  upon  their  landings.  Schmucke  supported 
the  suffering  creature,  and  told  the  story  of  La  Cibot's  de- 
votion, the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks  as  he  spoke.  Before 
very  long  the  whole  house,  the  whole  neighborhood  indeed, 
had  heard  of  Mme.  Cibot's  heroism  ;  she  had  given  herself  a 
dangerous  strain,  it  was  said,  with  lifting  one  of  the  "nut- 
crackers." 

Schmucke  meanwhile  went  to  Pons'  bedside  with  the  tale. 
Their  factotum  was  in  a  frightful  state.  "What  shall  we  do 
without  her?"  they  said,  as  they  looked  at  each  other ;  but 
Pons  was  so  plainly  the  worse  for  his  escapade  that  Schmucke 
did  not  dare  to  scold  him. 

"  Confounded  pric-a-prac  !  I  would  sooner  purn  dem  dan 
loose  mein  friend  !  "  he  cried,  when  Pons  told  him  of  the 
cause  of  the  accident.  "  To  susbect  Montame  Zipod,  dot  lend 
us  her  safings !  It  is  not  goot ;  it  is  fery  bad ;  but  it  is  der 
illness " 

"Ah  !  what  an  illness  !     I  am  not  the  same  man,  I  can  feel 


254  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

it,"  said  Pons.     "  My  dear  Schmucke,  if  only  you  did  not 
suffer  through  me." 

"Scold  me,"  Schmucke  answered,  '' und  leaf  Montame 
Zipod  in  beace." 

As  for  Mme.  Cibot,  she  soon  recovered  in  Dr.  Poulain's 
hands ;  and  her  restoration,  bordering  on  the  miraculous, 
shed  additional  lustre  on  her  name  and  fame  in  the  Marais. 
Pons  attributed  the  success  to  the  excellent  constitution  of 
the  patient,  who  resumed  her  ministrations  seven  days  later, 
to  the  great  satisfaction  of  her  two  gentlemen.  Her  influence 
in  their  household  and  her  tyranny  were  increased  a  hundred- 
fold by  the  accident.  In  the  course  of  a  week,  the  two  nut- 
crackers ran  into  debt ;  Mme.  Cibot  paid  the  outstanding 
amounts,  and  took  the  opportunity  to  obtain  from  Schmucke 
(how  easily  !)  a  receipt  for  two  thousand  francs,  which  she 
had  lent,  she  said,  to  the  friends. 

"  Oh,  what  a  doctor  Monsieur  Poulain  is  !  "  cried  La  Cibot, 
for  Pons'  benefit.  "  He  will  bring  you  through,  my  dear  sir, 
for  he  pulled  me  out  of  my  coffin  !  Cibot,  poor  man,  thought 
I  was  dead.  Well,  Dr.  Poulain  will  have  told  you  that  while 
I  was  in  bed  I  thought  of  nothing  but  you.  '  God  above,'  said 
I,  '  take  me,  and  let  my  dear  Monsieur  Pons  live '  " 

"  Poor  dear  Madame  Cibot,  you  all  but  crippled  yourself 
for  me." 

"Ah  !  but  for  Dr.  Poulain  I  should  have  been  put  to  bed 
with  a  shovel  by  now,  as  we  shall  all  be  one  day.  Well,  what 
must  be  must,  as  the  old  actor  said.  One  must  take  things 
])hilosophically.     How  did  you  get  on  without  me?  " 

"Schmucke  nursed  me,"  said  the  invalid,  "  but  our  poor 
money-box  and  our  lessons  have  suffered.  I  do  not  know 
how  he  managed." 

"  Calm  yourself,  Bons,"  exclaimed  Schmucke  ;  "  ve  haf  in 
Zipod  ein  panker " 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it,  ray  lamb.  You  are  our  children,  both 
of  you,"  cried  La  Cibot.    "  Our  savings  will  be  well  invested  ; 


COUSIX  PONS.  255 

you  are  safer  than  the  bank.  So  long  as  we  ve  a  morsel  of 
bread,  half  of  it  is  yours.     It  is  not  worth  mentioning " 

"Boor  Montame  Zipod  !  "  said  Schmucke,  and  he  went. 

Pons  said  nothing. 

"Would  you  believe  it,  my  cherub?"  said  La  Cibot, 
as  the  sick  man  tossed  uneasily,  "  in  my  agony — for  it  was  a 
near  squeak  for  me — the  thing  that  worried  me  most  was  the 
thought  that  I  must  leave  you  alone,  with  no  one  to  look  after 
you,  and  my  poor  Cibot  without  a  single  sou.  My  savings  are 
such  a  trifle  that  I  only  mention  them  in  connection  with  my 
death  and  Cibot,  an  angel  that  he  is  !  No.  He  nursed  me 
as  if  I  had  been  a  queen,  he  did,  and  cried  like  a  calf  over 
me  !  But  I  counted  on  you,  upon  my  word.  I  said  to  him  : 
'There,  Cibot !  my  gentlemen  will  not  let  you  starve '  " 

Pons  made  no  reply  to  this  thrust  ad  testamenfum  ;  but  as 
the  portress  waited  for  him  to  say  something — "  I  shall  recom- 
mend you  to  Monsieur  Schmucke,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Ah  !  "  cried  La  Cibot,  "  whatever  you  do  will  be  right ; 
I  trust  in  you  and  your  heart.  Let  us  never  talk  of  this 
again.  You  make  me  feel  ashamed,  my  cherub.  Think  of 
getting  better  ;  you  will  outlive  us  all  yet." 

Profound  uneasiness  filled  Mme.  Cibot's  mind.  She  cast 
about  for  some  way  of  making  the  sick  man  understand  that 
she  expected  a  legacy.  That  evening,  when  Schmucke  was 
eating  his  dinner  as  usual  by  Pons'  bedside,  she  went  out, 
hoping  to  find  Dr.  Poulain  at  home. 

Dr.  Poulain  lived  in  the  Rue  d'Orleans  in  a  small  first-floor 
establishment,  consisting  of  a  lobby,  a  sitting-room,  and  two 
bedrooms.  A  closet,  opening  into  tlie  lobby  and  the  bed- 
room, had  been  turned  into  a  study  for  the  doctor.  The 
kitchen,  the  servant's  bedroom,  and  a  small  cellar  were  situ- 
ated in  a  wing  of  the  house,  a  huge  pile  built  in  the  time  of 
the  Empire  on  the  site  of  an  old  mansion  of  which  the  garden 
still  remained,  though  it  had  been  divided  among  the  three 
first-floor  tenants. 


256  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

Nothing  had  been  changed  in  the  doctor's  house  since  it 
was  built.  Paint  and  paper  and  ceilings  were  all  redolent  of 
the  Empire.  The  grimy  deposits  of  forty  years  lay  thick  on 
walls  and  ceilings,  on  paper  and  paint  and  mirrors  and  gilding. 
And  yet,  this  little  establishment,  in  the  depths  of  the  Marais, 
paid  a  rent  of  a  thousand  francs. 

Mme.  Poulain,  the  doctor's  mother,  aged  sixty-seven,  was 
ending  her  days  in  the  second  bedroom.     She  worked  for  a 
breeches-maker,  stitching  men's  leggings,  breeches,  belts,  and 
suspenders,  anything,  in  fact,  that  is  made  in  a  way  of  busi- 
ness  which  has  somewhat  fallen  off  of  late  years.     Her  whole 
time  was  spent  in  keeping  her  son's  house  and  superintending 
the  one  servant ;  she  never  went  abroad,  and  took  the  air  in 
the  little  garden  entered  through  the  glass  door  of  the  sitting- 
room.     Twenty  years  previously,  when  her  husband  died,  she 
had  sold  his  business  to  his  best  workman,   who   gave  his 
master's  widow  work  enough  to  earn  a  daily  wage  of  thirty 
sous.     She  had  made  every  sacrifice  to  educate  her  only  son. 
At  all  costs,  he  should  occupy  a  higher  station  than  his  father 
before  him  ;  and  now  she  was  proud  of  her  ^sculapius,  she 
believed  in  him,  and  sacrificed  everything  to  him  as  before. 
She  was  happy  to  take  care  of  him,  to  work  and  put  by  a  little 
money,  and  dream  of  nothing  but  his  welfare,  and  love  him 
with  an  intelligent  love  of  which  every  mother  is  not  capable. 
For  instance,  Mme.  Poulain  remembered  that  she  had  been  a 
working-girl.     She  would  not  injure  her  son's  prospects ;  he 
should  not  be  shame'd  by  his  mother  (for.  the  good  woman's 
grammar  was  something  of  the  same  kind  as  Mme.  Cibot's); 
and  for  this  reason  she  kept  in  the  background,  and  went  to 
her  room  of  her  own  accord  if  any  distinguished  patient  came 
to  consult  the  doctor,  or  if  some  old  schoolfellow  or  fellow- 
student  chanced  to  call.     Dr.  Poulain  had  never  had  occasion 
to  blush  for  the  mother  wliom  he  revered ;  and  this  sublime 
love  of  hers  more  than  atoned  for  a  defective  education. 
The  breeches-maker's  business  sold  for  about  twenty  thou- 


COUSIN  PONS.  257 

sand  francs,  and  the  widow  invested  the  money  in  the  Funds 
in  1820.  The  income  of  eleven  hundred  francs  per  annum 
derived  from  this  source  was,  at  one  time,  her  whole  fortune. 
For  many  a  year  the  neighbors  used  to  see  the  doctor's  linen 
hanging  out  to  dry  upon  a  clothes-line  in  the  garden,  and  the 
servant  and  Mnie.  Poulain  thriftily  washed  everything  at 
home ;  a  piece  of  domestic  economy  which  did  not  a  little  to 
injure  the  doctor's  practice,  for  it  was  thought  that  if  he  was 
so  poor,  it  must  be  through  his  own  fault.  Her  eleven  hun- 
dred francs  scarcely  did  more  than  pay  the  rent.  During 
those  early  days,  Mme.  Poulain,  good,  stout,  little  old  woman, 
was  the  breadwinner,  and  the  poor  household  lived  upon  her 
earnings.  After  twelve  years  of  perseverance  upon  a  rough 
and  stony  road,  Dr.  Poulain  at  last  was  making  an  income  of 
three  thousand  francs,  and  Mme.  Poulain  had  an  income  of 
about  five  thousand  francs  at  her  disposal.  Five  thousand 
francs  for  those  who  know  Paris  means  a  bare  subsistence. 

The  sitting-room,  where  patients  waited  for  an  interview, 
was  shabbily  furnished.  There  was  the  inevitable  mahogany 
sofa  covered  with  yellow-flowered  Utrecht  velvet,  four  easy- 
chairs,  a  tea-table,  a  console,  and  half-a-dozen  chairs,  all  the 
property  of  the  deceased  breeches-maker,  and  chosen  by  him. 
A  lyre-shaped  clock  between  two  Egyptian  candlesticks  still 
preserved  its  glass  shade  intact.  You  asked  yourself  how  the 
yellow  chintz  window-curtains,  covered  with  red  flowers,  had 
contrived  to  hang  together  for  so  long  ;  for  evidently  they 
had  come  from  the  Jouy  factory,  and  Oberkampf  received  the 
Emperor's  congratulations  upon  similar  hideous  productions 
of  the  cotton  industry  in  1S09. 

The  doctor's  consulting-room  was  fitted  up  in  the  same 
style,  with  household  stuff  from  the  paternal  chamber.  It 
looked  stiff,  poverty-stricken,  and  bare.  What  patient  could 
put  faith  in  the  skill  of  an  unknown  doctor  who  could  not 
even  furnish  his  house  ?  And  this  in  a  time  when  advertising 
is  all  powerful ;  when  we  gild  the  gas  lamps  in  the  Place  de 
17 


258  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

la  Concorde  to  console  the  poor  man  for  his  poverty  by  re- 
minding him  that  he  is  rich  as  a  citizen. 

The  antechamber  did  duty  as  a  dining-room.  The  servant 
sat  at  her  sewing  there  whenever  she  was  not  busy  in  the 
kitchen  or  keeping  the  doctor's  mother  company.  From  the 
dingy,  short  curtains  in  the  windows  you  could  have  guessed 
at  the  shabby  thrift  behind  them  without  setting  foot  in  the 
dreary  place.  What  could  those  wall-cupboards  contain  but 
stale  scraps  of  food,  chipped  earthenware,  corks  used  over  and 
over  again  indefinitely,  soiled  table-linen,  odds  and  ends  that 
could  descend  but  one  step  lower  into  the  dust-heap,  and  all 
the  squalid  necessities  of  a  pinched  household  in  Paris  ? 

In  these  days,  when  the  five-franc  piece  is  always  lurking 
in  our  thoughts  and  intruding  itself  into  our  speech,  Dr.  Pou- 
lain,  aged  thirty-three,  was  still  a  bachelor.  Heaven  had  be- 
stowed on  him  a  mother  with  no  connections.  In  ten  years 
he  had  not  met  with  the  faintest  pretext  for  a  romance  in  his 
professional  career  ;  his  practice  lay  among  clerks  and  small 
manufacturers,  people  in  his  own  sphere  of  life,  with  homes 
very  much  like  his  own.  His  richer  patients  were  butchers, 
bakers,  and  the  more  substantial  tradespeople  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. These,  for  the  most  part,  attributed  their  recovery  to 
Nature,  as  an  excuse  for  paying  for  the  services  of  a  medical 
man,  who  came  on  foot  at  the  rate  of  two  francs  per  visit. 
In  his  profession,  a  carriage  is  more  necessary  than  medical 
skill. 

A  humdrum  monotonous  life  tells  in  the  end  upon  the  most 
adventurous  spirit.  A  man  fashions  himself  to  his  lot,  he 
accepts  a  commonplace  existence  ;  and  Dr.  Poulain,  after  ten 
years  of  his  practice,  continued  his  labors  of  Sisyphus  without 
the  despair  that  made  early  days  so  bitter.  And  yet — like 
every  soul  in  Paris — he  cherished  a  dream.  Remonencq  was 
happy  in  his  dream  ;  La  Cibot  had  a  dream  of  her  own  ;  and 
Dr.  Poulain  too  dreamed.  Some  day  he  would  be  called  in 
to  attend  a  rich  and  influential  patient,  would  effect  a  positive 


COUSIN  PONS.  259 

cure,  and  the  patient  would  procure  a  post  for  him  ;  he  would 
be  head-surgeon  to  a  hospital,  medical  officer  of  a  prison  or 
police  court,  or  doctor  to  the  boulevard  theatres.  He  had 
come  by  his  present  appointment  as  doctor  to  the  mairie  in 
this  very  way.  La  Cibot  had  called  him  in  when  the  landlord 
of  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie  fell  ill ;  he  had  treated 
the  case  with  complete  success;  M.  Pillerault,  the  patient, 
took  an  interest  in  the  young  doctor,  called  to  thank  him, 
and  saw  his  carefully  hidden  poverty.  Count  Popinot,  the 
cabinet  minister,  had  married  M.  Pillerault's  grand-niece, 
and  greatly  respected  her  uncle  ;  of  him,  therefore,  M.  Pille- 
rault had  asked  for  the  post,  which  Poulain  had  now  held  for 
two  years.  That  appointment  and  its  meagre  salary  came  just 
in  time  to  prevent  a  desperate  step ;  Poulain  was  thinking  of 
emigration  ;  and  for  a  Frenchman,  it  is  a  kind  of  death  to 
leave  France. 

Dr.  Poulain  went,  you  may  be  sure,  to  thank  Count  Popi- 
not ;  but  as  Count  Popinot's  family  pliysician  was  the  cele- 
brated Horace  Bianchon,  it  was  pretty  clear  that  his  chances 
of  gaining  a  footing  in  that  house  were  something  of  the 
slenderest.  The  poor  doctor  had  fondly  hoped  for  the  pat- 
ronage of  a  powerful  cabinet  minister,  one  of  the  twelve  or 
fifteen  cards  which  a  cunning  hand  has  been  shuffling  for  six- 
teen years  on  the  green  baize  of  the  council  table,  and  now 
he  dropped  back  again  into  his  Marais,  his  old  groping  life 
among  the  poor  and  the  small  tradespeople,  with  the  privilege 
of  issuing  certificates  of  death  for  a  yearly  stipend  of  twelve 
hundred  francs. 

Dr.  Poulain  had  distinguished  himself  to  some  extent  as  a 
house-student ;  he  was  a  prudent  practitioner,  and  not  without 
experience.  His  deaths  caused  no  scandal ;  he  had  plenty  of 
opportunities  of  studying  all  kinds  of  complaints  in  anima  vili. 
Judge,  therefore,  of  the  spleen  that  he  nourished  !  The  ex- 
pression of  his  countenance,  lengthy  and  not  too  cheerful  to 
begin  with,  at  times  was  positively  appalling.     Set  a  Tartuffe's 


260  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

all-devouring  eyes  and  the  sour  humor  of  an  Alceste  in  a 
sallow  parchment  visage,  and  try  to  imagine  for  yourself  the 
gait,  bearing,  and  expression  of  a  man  who  thought  himself  as 
good  a  doctor  as  the  illustrious  Bianchon,  and  felt  that  he  was 
held  down  in  his  narrow  lot  by  an  iron  hand.  He  could  not 
help  comparing  his  receipts  (ten  francs  a  day  if  he  was  fortu- 
nate) with  Bianchon's  five  or  six  hundred. 

Are  the  hatreds  and  jealousies  of  democracy  incomprehen- 
sible after  this?  Ambitious  and  continually  thwarted,  he 
could  not  reproach  himself.  He  had  once  already  tried  his 
fortune  by  inventing  a  purgative  pill,  something  like  Morri- 
son's, and  intrusted  the  business  operations  to  an  old  hospital 
chum,  a  house-student  who  afterward  took  a  retail  drug  busi- 
ness ;  but,  unluckily,  the  druggist,  smitten  with  the  charms  of  a 
ballet-dancer  of  the  Ambigu-Comique,  found  himself  at  length 
in  the  bankruptcy  court ;  and  as  the  patent  had  been  taken 
out  in  his  name,  his  partner  was  literally  without  a  remedy, 
and  the  important  discovery  enriched  the  purchaser  of  the 
business.  The  sometime  house-student  set  sail  for  Mexico, 
that  land  of  gold,  taking  poor  Poulain's  little  savings  with 
him ;  and,  to  add  insult  to  injury,  the  opera-dancer  treated 
him  as  an  extortioner  when  he  applied  to  her  for  his  stolen 
money. 

Not  a  single  rich  patient  had  come  to  him  since  he  had  the 
luck  to  cure  old  M.  Pillerault.  Poulain  made  his  rounds  on 
foot,  scouring  the  Marais  like  a  lean  cat,  and  obtained  from 
two  to  forty  sous  out  of  a  score  of  visits.  The  paying  patient 
was  a  phenomenon  about  as  rare  as  that  anomalous  fowl  known 
as  a  "white  blackbird  "  in  all  sublunary  regions. 

The  briefless  barrister,  the  doctor  without  a  patient,  are 
preeminently  the  two  types  of  a  decorous  despair  peculiar  to 
this  city  of  Paris ;  it  is  mute,  dull  despair  in  human  form, 
dressed  in  a  black  coat  and  trousers  with  shining  seams  that 
recall  the  zinc  on  an  attic  roof,  a  glistening  satin  vest,  a  hat 
preserved  like  a  relic,  a  pair  of  old  gloves,  and  a  cotton  shirt. 


COUSIN  PONS.  261 

The  man  is  the  incarnation  of  a  melancholy  poem,  sombre  as 
the  secrets  of  the  Conciergerie.  Other  kinds  of  poverty,  the 
poverty  of  the  artist — actor,  painter,  musician,  or  poet — are 
relieved  and  lightened  by  the  artist's  joviality,  the  reckless 
gayety  of  the  Bohemian  border  country — the  first  stage  of  the 
journey  to  the  Thebaid  of  genius.  But  these  two  black-coated 
professions  that  go  afoot  through  the  street  are  brought  con- 
tinually in  contact  with  disease  and  dishonor  ;  they  see  noth- 
ing of  human  nature  but  its  sores ;  in  the  forlorn  first  stages 
and  beginnings  of  their  career  they  eye  competitors  suspi- 
ciously and  defiantly;  concentrated  dislike  and  ambition 
flashes  out  in  glances  like  the  breaking  forth  of  hidden  flames. 
Let  two  schoolfellows  meet  after  twenty  years,  the  rich  man 
will  avoid  the  poor;  he  does  not  recognize  him,  he  is  afraid 
even  to  glance  into  the  gulf  which  Fate  has  set  between  him 
and  the  friend  of  other  years.  The  one  has  been  borne 
through  life  on  the  mettlesome  steed  called  Fortune,  or  wafted 
on  the  golden  clouds  of  success ;  the  other  has  been  making 
his  way  in  underground  Paris  through  the  sewers,  and  bears 
the  marks  of  his  career  upon  him.  How  many  a  chum  of  old 
days  turned  aside  at  the  sight  of  the  doctor's  greatcoat  and 
vest ! 

With  this  explanation,  it  should  be  easy  to  understand  how 
Dr.  Poulain  came  to  lend  himself  so  readily  to  the  farce  of 
La  Cibot's  illness  and  recovery.  Greed  of  every  kind,  ambi- 
tion of  every  nature,  is  not  easy  to  hide.  The  doctor  ex- 
amined his  patient,  found  that  every  organ  was  sound  and 
healthy,  admired  the  regularity  of  her  pulse  and  the  perfect 
ease  of  her  movements ;  and  as  she  continued  to  moan  aloud, 
he  saw  that  for  some  reason  she  found  it  convenient  to  lie  at 
death's  door.  The  speedy  cure  of  a  serious  imaginary  disease 
was  sure  to  cause  a  sensation  in  the  neighborhood;  the  doctor 
would  be  talked  about.  He  made  up  his  mind  at  once.  He 
talked  of  rupture  and  of  taking  it  in  time,  and  thought  even 
worse  of  the  case  than  La  Cibot  herself.     The  portress  was 


262  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

plied  with  various  remedies,  and  finally  underwent  a  sham 
operation,  crowned  with  complete  success.  Poulain  repaired 
to  the  Arsenal  Library,  looked  out  a  grotesque  case  in  some 
of  Desplein's  records  of  extraordinary  cures,  and  fitted  the 
details  to  Mme.  Cibot,  modestly  attributing  the  success  of  the 
treatment  to  the  great  surgeon,  in  whose  steps  (he  said)  he 
walked.  Such  is  the  impudence  of  beginners  in  Paris.  Every- 
thing is  made  to  serve  as  a  ladder  by  which  to  climb  upon  the 
scene ;  and  as  everything,  even  the  rungs  of  a  ladder,  will 
wear  out  in  time,  the  new  members  of  every  profession  are  at 
a  loss  to  find  the  right  sort  of  wood  of  which  to  make  steps 
for  themselves. 

There  are  moments  when  the  Parisian  is  not  propitious. 
He  grows  tired  of  raising  pedestals,  pouts  like  a  spoiled  child, 
and  will  have  no  more  idols  ;  or,  to  state  it  more  accurately : 
Paris  cannot  always  find  a  proper  object  for  infatuation.  Now 
and  then  the  vein  of  genius  gives  out,  and  at  such  times  the 
Parisian  may  turn  supercilious ;  he  is  not  always  willing  to  bow 
down  and  gild  mediocrity. 

Mme.  Cibot,  entering  in  her  usual  unceremonious  fashion, 
found  the  doctor  and  his  mother  at  table,  before  a  bowl  of 
lamb's  lettuce,  the  cheapest  of  all  salad-stuffs.  The  dessert 
consisted  of  a  thin  wedge  of  Brie  cheese  flanked  by  a  plate  of 
specked  apples  and  a  dish  of  foreign  mixed  dried  fruits,  known 
as  quatre-7nendiants,  in  which  the  raisin-stalks  were  abundantly 
conspicuous. 

"You  may  stay,  mother,"  said  the  doctor,  laying  a  hand 
on  Mme.  Poulain's  arm  ;  "  this  is  Madame  Cibot,  of  whom  I 
have  told  you." 

"My  respects  to  you,  madame,  and  my 'duty  to  you,  sir," 
said  La  Cibot,  taking  the  chair  which  the  doctor  offered. 
"Ah  !  is  this  your  mother,  sir?  She  is  very  happy  to  have  a 
son  who  has  such  talent  ;  he  saved  my  life,  madame,  brought 
me  back  from  the  depths." 


COUSIN  PONS.  263 

The  widow,  hearing  Mme.  Cibot  praise  her  son  in  this  way, 
thought  her  a  delightful  woman. 

"  I  have  just  come  to  tell  you  that,  between  ourselves,  poor 
Monsieur  Pons  is  doing  very  badly,  sir,  and  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you  about  him " 

"Let  us  go  into  the  sitting-room,"  interrupted  the  doctor, 
and  with  a  significant  gesture  he  indicated  the  servant. 

In  the  sitting-room  La  Cibot  explained  her  position  with 
regard  to  the  pair  of  nutcrackers  at  very  considerable  length. 
She  repeated  the  history  of  her  loan  with  added  embellish- 
ments, and  gave  a  full  account  of  the  immense  services  ren- 
dered during  the  past  ten  years  to  Messrs.  Pons  and  Schmucke. 
The  two  old  men,  to  all  appearance,  could  not  exist  without 
her  motherly  care.  She  posed  as  an  angel ;  she  told  so  many 
lies,  one  after  another,  watering  them  with  her  tears,  that  old 
Mme.  Poulain  was  quite  touched. 

"You  understand,  my  dear  sir,"  she  concluded,  "that  I 
really  ought  to  know  how  far  I  can  depend  on  Monsieur  Pons' 
intentions,  supposing  that  he  should  die ;  not  that  I  want 
him  to  die,  for  looking  after  those  two  innocents  is  my  life, 
madame,  you  see ;  still,  when  one  of  them  is  gone  I  shall  look 
after  the  other.  For  my  own  part,  I  was  built  by  Nature  to 
rival  mothers.  Without  nobody  to  care  for,  nobody  to  take 
for  a  child,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do.  So  if  Monsieur 
Poulain  only  would,  he  might  do  me  a  service  for  which 
I  should  be  very  grateful ;  and  that  is,  to  say  a  word  to 
Monsieur  Pons  for  me.  Goodness  me  !  an  annuity  of  a  thou- 
sand francs,  is  that  too  much,  I  ask  you?  To  M.  Schmucke 
it  will  be  so  much  gained.  Our  dear  patient  said  that  he 
should  recommend  me  to  the  German,  poor  man  ;  it  is  his 
idea,  no  doubt,  that  Monsieur  Schmucke  should  be  his  heir. 
But  what  is  a  man  that  cannot  put  two  ideas  together  in 
French?  And,  beside,  he  would  be  quite  capable  of  going 
back  to  Germany,  he  will  be  in  such  despair  over  his  friend's 
death " 


264  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

The  doctor  grew  grave.  ''  My  dear  Madame  Cibot,"  he 
said,  "  this  sort  of  thing  does  not  in  the  least  concern  a 
doctor.  I  should  not  be  allowed  to  exercise  my  profession  if 
it  was  known  that  I  interfered  in  the  matter  of  my  patients' 
testamentary  dispositions.     The  law  forbids  a  doctor  to  receive 

a  legacy  from  a  patient " 

"  A  stupid  law  !  Wiiat  is  to  hinder  me  from  dividing  my 
legacy  with  you?  "  La  Cibot  said  immediately. 

"I  will  go  further,"  said  the  doctor;  "my  professional 
conscience  will  not  permit  me  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Pons  of 
his  death.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  not  so  dangerously  ill  that 
there  is  any  need  to  speak  of  it ;  and,  in  the  second,  such  talk 
coming  from  me  might  give  a  shock  to  the  system  that  would 
do  him  real  harm,  and  then  his  illness  might  terminate  fatally 

and " 

"  /  don't  put  on  gloves  to  tell  him  to  get  his  affairs  in 
order,"  cried  Mme.  Cibot,  "  and  he  is  none  the  worse  for  that. 
He  is  used  to  it.     There  is  nothing  to  fear." 

"Not  a  word  about  it,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot!  These 
things  are  not  within  a  doctor's  province ;   it  is  a  notary's 

business " 

"  But,  my  dear  Monsieur  Poulain,  suppose  that  Monsieur 
Pons  of  his  own  accord  should  ask  you  how  he  is,  and  whether 
he  had  better  make  his  arrangements  ;  then,  would  you  refuse 
to  tell  him  that  if  you  want  to  get  better  it  is  an  excellent  plan 
to  set  everything  in  order  ?     Then  you  might  just  slip  in  a 

little  word  for  me " 

"Oh,  if  he  talks  of  making  his  will,  I  certainly  shall  not 
dissuade  him,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Very  well,  that  is  settled.  I  came  to  thank  you  for  your 
care  of  me,"  she  added,  as  she  slipped  a  folded  paper  con- 
taining three  gold-coins  into  the  doctor's  hands.  "  It  is  all  I 
can  do  at  the  moment.  Ah  !  my  dear  Monsieur  Poulain,  if 
I  were  rich,  you  should  be  rich,  you  that  are  the  image  of 
Providence  on  earth.     Madame,  you  have  an  angel  for  a  son." 


COUSIN  PONS.  265 

La  Cibot  rose  to  her  feet,  Mme.  Poulain  bowed  amiably, 
and  the  doctor  went  to  the  door  with  tlie  visitor.  Just  then  a 
sudden,  lurid  gleam  of  light  flashed  across  the  mind  of  this 
Lady  Macbeth  of  the  streets.  She  saw  clearly  that  the  doctor 
was  surely  her  accomplice — he  had  taken  the  fee  for  a  sham 
illness. 

"Monsieur  Poulain,"  she  began,  "  how  can  you  refuse  to 
say  a  word  or  two  to  save  me  from  want,  when  you  helped  me 
in  the  affair  of  my  accident  ?  " 

The  doctor  felt  that  the  devil  had  him  by  the  hair,  as  the 
saying  is;  he  felt,  too,  that  the  hair  was  being  twisted  round 
the  pitiless  red  claw.  Startled  and  afraid  lest  he  should  sell 
his  honesty  for  such  a  trifle,  he  answered  the  diabolical  sugges- 
tion by  another  no  less  diabolical. 

"  Listen,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  her 
into  his  consulting-room.  "I  will  now  pay  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude that  I  owe  you  for  my  appointment  to  the  mairie " 

"  We  go  shares?  "  she  asked  briskly. 

"In  what?" 

"In  the  legacy." 

"You  do  not  know  me,"  replied  Dr.  Poulain,  drawing 
himself  up  like  Valerius  Publicola.  "  Let  us  have  no  more  of 
that.  I  have  a  friend,  an  old  schoolfellow  of  mine,  a  very  in- 
telligent young  fellow  ;  and  we  are  so  much  the  more  intimate 
because  our  lives  have  fallen  out  very  much  in  the  same  way. 
He  was  studing  law  while  I  was  studying  medicine  ;  and  when 
I  was  a  house-student,  he  was  engrossing  deeds  in  Maitre 
Couture's  office.  His  father  was  a  shoemaker,  and  mine  was 
a  breeches-maker ;  he  has  not  found  any  one  to  take  much 
interest  in  his  career,  nor  has  he  any  capital;  for,  after  all, 
capital  is  only  to  be  had  from  sympathizers.  He  could  only 
afford  to  buy  a  provincial  connection — at  Mantes — and  so 
little  do  provincials  understand  the  Parisian  intellect  that 
they  set  all  sorts  of  intrigues  on  foot  against  him." 

"  The  wretches  !  "  cried  La  Cibot. 


266  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor.  ''  They  combined  against  him  to 
such  purpose  that  they  forced  him  to  sell  his  connection  by 
misrepresenting  something  that  he  had  done  ;  the  attorney  for 
the  crown  interfered,  he  belonged  to  the  place,  and  sided  with 
his  fellow-townsmen.  My  friend's  name  is  Fraisier.  He  is 
lodsed  as  I  am,  and  he  is  even  leaner  and  more  threadbare. 
He  took  refuge  in  our  arrondissement,  and  is  reduced  to  ap- 
pear for  clients  in  the  police  court  or  before  the  magistrate. 
He  lives  in  the  Rue  de  la  Perle  close  by.  Go  to  number  9, 
third  floor,  and  you  will  see  his  name  on  the  door  on  the 
landing,  painted  in  gilt  letters  on  a  small  square  of  red  leather. 
Fraisier  makes  a  special  point  of  disputes  among  the  porters, 
workmen,  and  poor  folk  in  the  arrondissement,  and  his  charges 
are  low.  He  is  an  honest  man  ;  for  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
if  he  had  been  a  scamp,  he  would  be  keeping  his  carriage  by 
now.  I  will  call  and  see  my  friend  Fraisier  this  evening.  Go 
to  him  early  to-morrow ;  he  knows  Monsieur  Louchard,  the 
bailiff :  Monsieur  Tabareau,  the  clerk  of  the  court ;  and  the 
justice  of  the  peace,  Monsieur  Vitel;  and  Monsieur  Trognon, 
the  notary.  He  is  even  now  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  best 
men  of  business  in  the  Quarter.  If  he  takes  charge  of  your 
interests,  if  you  can  secure  him  as  Monsieur  Pons'  adviser, 
you  will  have  a  second  self  in  him,  you  see.  But  do  not  make 
dishonorable  proposals  to  him,  as  you  did  just  now  to  me  ;  he 
has  a  head  on  his  shoulders,  you  will  understand  each  other. 
And  as  for  acknowledging  his  services,  I  will  be  your  interme- 
diary  " 

Mme.  Cibot  looked  askance  at  the  doctor. 

"Is  that  the  lawyer  who  helped  Madame  Florimond  the 
haberdasher  in  the  Rue  Vieille-du-Temple  out  of  a  fix  in  that 
matter  of  her  friend's  legacy  ?  " 

"The  very  same." 

"  Wasn't  it  a  shame  that  she  did  not  marry  him  after  he 
had  gained  two  thousand  francs  a  year  for  her?  "  exclaimed 
La  Cibot.     "And  she  thought  to  clear  off  scores  by  making 


COUSIN  PONS.  267 

him  a  present  of  a  dozen  shirts  and  a  couple  of  dozen  pocket- 
handkerchiefs;  an  outfit,  in  short." 

"  My  dear  Madame  Cibot,  that  outfit  cost  a  thousand  francs, 
and  Fraisier  was  just  setting  up  for  himself  in  the  Quarter,  and 
wanted  the  things  very  badly.  And  what  was  more,  she  paid 
the  bill  without  asking  any  questions.  That  affair  brought 
him  clients,  and  now  he  is  very  busy  ;  but  in  my  line  a  prac- 
tice brings " 

"It  is  only  the  righteous  that  suffer  here  below,"  said 
La  Cibot.  "  Well,  Monsieur  Poulain,  good-day  and  thank 
you." 

And  herewith  begins  the  tragedy,  or,  if  you  like  to  have  it 
so,  a  terrible  comedy — the  death  of  an  old  bachelor  delivered 
over  by  circumstances  too  strong  for  him  to  the  rapacity  and 
greed  that  gathered  about  his  bed.  And  other  forces  came 
to  the  support  of  rapacity  and  greed  ;  there  was  the  picture- 
collector's  mania,  that  most  intense  of  all  passions;  there  was 
the  cupidity  of  the  Sieur  Fraisier,  whom  you  shall  presently 
behold  in  his  den,  a  sight  to  make  you  shudder;  and,  lastly, 
there  was  the  Auvergnat  thirsting  for  money,  ready  for  any- 
thing— even  for  a  crime — that  should  bring  him  the  capital  he 
wanted.  The  first  part  of  the  story  serves  in  some  sort  as  a 
prelude  to  this  comedy  in  which  all  the  actors  who  have  hith- 
erto occupied  the  stage  will  reappear. 

The  degradation  of  a  word  is  one  of  those  curious  freaks  of 
manners  upon  which  whole  volumes  of  explanation  might  be 
written.  Write  to  an  attorney  and  "ddress  him  as  "Lawyer 
So-and-so,"  and  you  insult  him  as  surely  as  you  would  insult 
a  wholesale  colonial  produce  merchant  by  addressing  your 
letter  to  "  Mr.  So-and-so,  Grocer."  There  are  plenty  of  men 
of  the  world  who  ought  to  be  aware,  since  the  knowledge  of 
such  subtle  distinctions  is  their  province,  that  you  cannot  in- 
sult a  'French  writer  more  cruelly  than  by  caling  him  un  homme 
de  lettres — a  literary  man.  The  word  monsieur  is  a  capital 
example  of  the  life  and  death  of  words.     Abbreviated  from 


268  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

monseigneur,  once  so  considerable  a  title,  and  even  now,  in 
the  form  of  sire,  reserved  for  emperors  and  kings,  it  is  be- 
stowed indifferently  upon  all  and  sundry  ;  while  the  twin  word 
messire,  which  is  nothing  but  its  double  and  equivalent,  if  by 
any  chance  it  slips  into  a  certificate  of  burial,  produces  an 
outcry  in  the  Republican  papers. 

Magistrates,  councilors,  jurisconsults,  judges,  barristers, 
officers  for  the  crown,  bailiffs,  attorneys,  clerks  of  the  court, 
procurators,  solicitors,  and  agents  of  various  kinds  represent 
or  misrepresent  Justice.  The  "lawyer"  and  the  bailiff's 
men  (commonly  called  "the  brokers  ")*  are  the  two  lowest 
runss  of  the  ladder.  Now,  the  bailiff's  man  is  an  outsider, 
an  adventitious  minister  of  justice,  appearing  to  see  that  judg- 
ment is  executed  ;  he  is,  in  fact,  a  kind  of  inferior  executioner 
employed  by  the  county  court.  But  the  word  "lawyer" 
Qiomme  de  loi,  man  of  law)  is  a  depreciatory  term  applied  to 
the  legal  profession.  Consuming  professional  jealousy  finds 
similar  disparaging  epithets  for  fellow-travelers  in  every  walk 
of  life,  and  every  calling  has  its  special  insult.  The  scorn 
flung  into  the  words  hotnnte  de  loi,  homme  de  lettres,  is  wanting 
in  the  plural  form,  which  may  be  used  without  offense ;  but 
in  Paris  every  profession,  learned  or  unlearned,  has  its  omega, 
the  individual  who  brings  it  down  to  the  level  of  the  lowest 
class ;  and  the  written  law  has  its  connecting  link  with  the 
custom  right  of  the  streets.  There  are  districts  where  the 
pettifogging  man  of  business,  known  as  Lawyer  So-and-so,  is 
still  to  be  found.  M.  Fraisier  was  to  the  member  of  the 
Incorporated  Law  Society  as  the  money-lender  of  the  Halles, 
offering  small  loans  for  a  short  period  at  an  exorbitant  interest, 
is  to  the  great  capitalist. 

Working  people,  strange  to  say,  are  as  shy  of  officials  as  of 
fashionable  restaurants,  they  take  advice  from  irregular  sources 
as  they  turn  into  a  little  wineshop  to  drink.  Each  rank  in 
life  finds  its  own  level,  and  there  abides.     None  but  a  chosen 

*  Constables. 


COUSIN  PONS.  269 

few  care  to  climb  the  heights,  few  can  feel  at  ease  in  the 
presence  of  their  betters,  or  take  their  place  among  them,  like 
a  Beaumarchais  letting  fall  the  watch  of  the  great  lord  who 
tried  to  humiliate  him.  And  if  there  are  few  who  can  even 
rise  to  a  higher  social  level,  those  among  them  who  can  throw 
off  their  swaddling-clothes  are  rare  and  great  exceptions. 

At  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  Mme.  Cibot  stood  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Perle  ;  she  was  making  a  survey  of  the  abode  of  her 
future  adviser.  Lawyer  Fraisier.  The  house  was  one  of  the 
old-fashioned  kind  formerly  inhabited  by  small  tradespeople 
and  citizens  with  small  means.  A  cabinetmaker's  store  occu- 
pied almost  the  whole  of  the  first  floor,  as  well  as  the  little 
yard  behind,  which  was  covered  with  his  workshops  and  ware- 
houses ;  the  small  remaining  space  being  taken  up  by  the 
porter's  lodge  and  the  passage  entry  in  the  middle.  The 
staircase  walls  were  half  rotten  with  damp  and  covered  with 
nitre  to  such  a  degree  that  the  house  seemed  to  be  stricken 
with  leprosy. 

Mme,  Cibot  went  straight  to  the  porter's  lodge,  and  there 
encountered  one  of  her  own  fraternity,  a  shoemaker,  his  wife, 
and  two  small  children,  all  housed  in  a  room  ten  feet  square, 
lighted  from  the  yard  at  the  back.  I-.a  Cibot  mentioned  her 
profession,  named  herself,  and  spoke  of  her  house  in  the  Rue 
de  Normandie,  and  the  two  women  were  on  cordial  terms  at 
once.  After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  spent  in  gossip  while  the 
shoemaker's  wife  made  breakfast  ready  for  her. husband  and 
the  children,  Mme.  Cibot  turned  the  conversation  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  lodgers,  and  spoke  of  the  lawyer. 

"I  have  come  to  see  him  on  business,"  she  said.  "One 
of  his  friends,  Dr.  Poulain,  recommended  me  to  him.  Do 
you  know  Dr.  Poulain  ?" 

"I  should  think  I  do,"  said  the  lady  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Perle.  "  He  saved  my  little  girl's  life  when  she  had  the 
croup." 


270  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"■  He  saved  my  life  too,  madame.  What  sort  of  man  is  this 
Monsieur  Fraisier?  " 

"  He  is  the  sort  of  man,  my  dear  lady,  out  of  whom  it 
is  very  difficult  to  get  the  postage-money  at  the  end  of  the 
month." 

To  a  person  of  La  Cibot's  intelligence  this  was  enough. 

"  One  may  be  poor  and  honest,"  observed  she. 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  so,"  returned  Fraisier's  portress.  "  We 
are  not  rolling  in  coppers,  let  alone  gold  or  silver ;  but  we 
have  not  a  centime  belonging  to  anybody  else." 

This  sort  of  talk  sounded  familiar  to  La  Cibot. 

"In  short,  one  can  trust  him,  child,  eh?" 

"Lord!  when  Monsieur  Fraisier  means  well  by  anyone, 
there  is  not  his  like,  so  I  have  heard  Madame  Florimond 
say." 

"And  why  didn't  she  marry  him  when  she  owed  her  for- 
tune to  him?"  La  Cibot  asked  quickly.  "  It  is  something 
for  a  little  haberdasher,  kept  by  an  old  man,  to  be  a  barrister's 
wife " 

"Why? "  asked  the  portress,  bringing  Mme.  Cibot  out 

into  the  passage.     "  Why  ? You  are  going  up  to  see  him, 

are  you  not,  madame  ?     Very  well,  when  you  are  in  his  office 
you  will  know  why." 

From  the  state  of  the  staircase,  lighted  by  sash-windows  on 
the  side  of  the  yard,  it  was  pretty  evident  that  the  inmates  of 
the  house,  with  the  exception  of  the  landlord  and  M.  Fraisier 
himself,  were  all  workmen.  There  were  traces  of  various 
crafts  in  the  deposit  of  mud  upon  the  steps — brass-filings, 
broken  buttons,  scraps  of  gauze,  and  esparto  grass  lay  scat- 
tered about.  The  walls  of  the  upper  stories  were  covered 
with  apprentices'  ribald  scrawls  and  caricatures.  The  por- 
tress' last  remark  had  roused  La  Cibot's  curiosity;  she  de- 
cided, not  unnaturally,  that  she  would  consult  Dr.  Poulain's 
friend ;  but  as  for  employing  him,  that  must  depend  upon  her 
impressions. 


COUSIN  PONS.  271 

**I  sometimes  wonder  how  Madame  Sauvage  can  stop  in 
his  service,"  said  the  portress,  by  way  of  comment;  she  was 
following  in  Mme.  Cibot's  wake.  "  I  will  come  up  with  you, 
madame,"  she  added;  "  I  am  taking  the  milk  and  the  news- 
paper up  to  my  landlord." 

Arrived  on  the  third  floor,  above  the  entresol.  La  Cibot 
beheld  a  door  of  the  most  villainous  description.  The  doubt- 
ful red  paint  was  coated  for  seven  or  eight  inches  round  the 
keyhole  with  a  filthy  glaze,  a  grimy  deposit  from  which  the 
modern  house-decorator  endeavors  to  protect  the  doors  of 
more  elegant  apartments  by  glass  "finger-plates."  A  grat- 
ing, almost  stopped  up  with  some  compound  similar  to  the 
deposit  with  which  a  restaurant-keeper  gives  an  air  of  cellar- 
bound  antiquity  to  a  merely  middle-aged  bottle,  only  served 
to  heighten  the  general  resemblance  to  a  prison  door ;  a  re- 
semblance further  heightened  by  the  trefoil-shaped  iron-work, 
the  formidable  hinges,  the  clumsy  nail-heads.  A  miser,  or  a 
pamphleteer  at  strife  with  the  world  at  large,  must  surely  have 
invented  these  fortifications.  A  leaden  sink,  which  received 
the  waste  water  of  the  household,  contributed  its  quota  to  the 
fetid  atmosphere  of  the  staircase,  and  the  ceiling  was  covered 
with  fantastic  arabesques  traced  by  candle-smoke — such  ara- 
besques !  On  pulling  a  greasy  acorn  tassel  attached  to  the 
bell-rope,  a  little  bell  jangled  feebly  somewhere  within,  com- 
plaining of  the  fissure  in  its  metal  sides. 

Every  detail  was  in  keeping  with  the  general  dismal  effect. 
La  Cibot  heard  a  heavy  footstep,  and  the  asthmatic  wheezing 
of  a  virago  within,  and  Mme.  Sauvage  presently  showed 
herself.  Adrien  Brauwer  might  have  painted  just  such  a  hag 
for  his  picture  of  Witches  starting  for  the  Sabbath  ;  a  stout, 
unwholesome  slattern,  five  feet  six  inches  in  height,  with  a 
grenadier  countenance  and  a  beard  which  far  surpassed  La 
Cibot's  own  ;  she  wore  a  cheap,  hideous,  ugly  cotton  gown, 
a  red  bandana  handkerchief  knotted  over  hair  which  she  still 
continued   to  put  in  curl-papers  (using  for  that  purpose  the 


272  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

printed  circulars  which  her  master  received),  and  a  huge  pair 
of  gold  earrings  like  cart-wheels  in  her  ears.  This  female 
Cerberus  carried  a  battered  skillet  in  one  hand,  and,  opening 
the  door,  set  free  an  imprisoned  odor  of  scorched  milk — a 
nauseous  and  penetrating  smell,  that  lost  itself  at  once,  how- 
ever, among  the  fumes  outside. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  missus?"  demanded  Mme, 
Sauvage,  and  with  a  truculent  air  she  looked  La  Cibot  over; 
evidently  she  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  visitor  was  too  well 
dressed,  and  her  eyes  looked  the  more  murderous  because 
they  were  naturally  bloodshot. 

"I  have  come  to  see  Monsieur  Fraisier;  his  friend,  Dr. 
Poulain,  sent  me." 

''Oh!  come  in,  missus,"  said  La  Sauvage,  grown  very 
amiable  all  of  a  sudden,  which  proves  that  she  was  prepared 
for  this  morning  visit. 

With  a  sweeping  curtsey,  the  stalwart  woman  flung  open  the 
door  of  a  private  office,  which  looked  upon  the  street,  and 
discovered  the  ex-attorney  of  Mantes. 

The  room  was  a  complete  picture  of  a  third-rate  attorney's 
office ;  with  the  stained  wooden  cases,  the  letter-files  so  old 
that  they  had  grown  beards  (in  ecclesiastical  language),  the 
red  tape  dangling  limp  and  dejected,  the  pasteboard  boxes 
covered  with  traces  of  the  gambols  of  mice,  the  dirty  floor, 
the  ceiling  tawny  with  smoke.  A  frugal  allowance  of  wood 
was  smouldering  on  a  couple  of  fire-dogs  on  the  hearth.  And 
on  the  chimney-piece  above  stood  a  foggy  mirror  and  a 
modern  clock  with  an  inlaid  wooden  case :  Fraisier  had 
picked  it  up  at  an  execution  sale,  together  with  the  tawdry 
imitation  rococo  candlesticks,  with  the  zinc  beneath  showing 
through  the  lacquer  in  several  places. 

M.  Fraisier  was  small,  thin,  and  unwholesome  looking;  his 
red  face,  covered  with  an  eruption,  told  of  tainted  blood ; 
and  he  had,  moreover,  a  trick  of  continually  scratching  his 
right  arm.     A  wig  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head  displayed 


"MADAME    CIBOT.    I     BELIEVE?" 


COUSIN  PONS.  273 

a  brick-colored  cranium  of  ominous  conformation.  This 
person  rose  from  a  cane-seated  armchair,  in  which  he  sat  on  a 
green  leather  cushion,  assumed  an  agreeble  expression,  and 
brousrht  forward  a  chair. 

"■  Madame  Cibot,  I  believe?  "  queried  he,  in  dulcet  tones. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  portress.  She  had  lost  her  ha- 
bitual assurance. 

Something  in  the  tones  of  a  voice  which  strongly  resembled 
the  sounds  of  the  little  door-bell,  something  in  a  glance  even 
sharper  than  the  green  eyes  of  her  future  legal  adviser,  scared 
Mme.  Cibot.  Fraisier's  presence  so  pervaded  the  room  that 
any  one  might  have  thought  there  was  pestilence  in  the  air ; 
and  in  a  flash  Mme.  Cibot  understood  why  Mme.  Florimond 
had  not  become  Mme.  Fraisier. 

"Poulain  told  me  about  you,  my  dear  madame,"  said  the 
lawyer,  in  the  unnatural  fashion  commonly  described  by  the 
words  ''mincing  tones;"  tones  sharp,  thin,  and  grating  as 
verjuice,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts. 

Arrived  at  this  point,  he  tried  to  draw  the  skirts  of  his 
dressing-gown  over  a  pair  of  angular  knees  encased  in  thread- 
bare felt.  The  robe  was  an  ancient  painted  cotton  garment, 
lined  with  wadding  which  took  the  liberty  of  protruding 
itself  through  various  slits  in  it  here  and  there  ;  the  weight 
of  this  lining  had  pulled  the  skirts  aside,  disclosing  a  dingy 
hued  flannel  vest  beneath.  With  something  of  a  coxcomb's 
manner,  Fraisier  fastened  this  refractory  article  of  dress, 
tightening  the  girdle  to  define  his  reedy  figure  ;  then  with  a 
blow  of  the  tongs  he  effected  a  reconciliation  between  two 
burning  brands  that  had  long  avoided  one  another,  like 
brothers  after  a  family  quarrel.  A  sudden  bright  idea  struck 
him,  and  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  Madame  Sauvage  !  "  called  he. 

"Well?" 

"  I  am  not  at  home  to  anybody  !  " 

"  Eh  !  bless  your  life,  there's  no  need  to  say  that !  " 
18 


274  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"  She  is  my  old  nurse,"  the  lawyer  made  remark,  in  some 
confusion. 

"And  she  has  not  recovered  her  figure  yet,"  remarked  the 
heroine  of  the  Halles. 

Fraisier  laughed,  and  drew  the  bolt  lest  his  housekeeper 
should  interrupt  Mme.  Cibot's  confidences. 

"Well,  madame,  explain  your  business,"  said  he,  making 
another  efi"ort  to  drape  himself  in  the  dressing-gown.  "Any 
one  recommended  to  me  by  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the 
world  may  count  upon  me — I  may  say — absolutely." 

For  half  an  hour  Mme.  Cibot  talked,  and  the  man  of  law 
made  no  interruption  of  any  sort ;  his  face  wore  the  expression 
of  curious  interest  with  which  a  young  soldier  listens  to  a  pen- 
sioner of  the  Old  Guard.  Fraisier's  silence  and  acquies- 
cence, the  rapt  attention  with  which  he  appeared  to  listen  to 
a  torrent  of  gossip  similar  to  the  samples  previously  given, 
dispelled  some  of  the  prejudices  inspired  in  La  Cibot's  mind 
by  his  squalid  surroundings.  The  little  lawyer  with  the  black- 
speckled  green  eyes  was  in  reality  making  a  study  of  his  client. 
When  at  length  she  came  to  a  stand  and  looked  to  him  to 
speak,  he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  the  complaint  known  as  a 
"churchyard  cough,"  and  had  recourse  to  an  earthenware 
basin  half  full  of  herb  tea,  which  he  drained. 

"  But  for  Poulain,  my  dear  madame,  I  should  have  been 
dead  before  this,"  said  Fraisier,  by  way  of  answer  to  the  por- 
tress' looks  of  motherly  compassion;  "but  he  will  bring  me 
round,  he  says " 

As  all  the  client's  confidences  appeared  to  have  slipped 
from  the  memory  of  her  legal  adviser,  she  began  to  cast  about 
for  a  way  of  taking  leave  of  a  man  so  apparently  near  death. 

"In  an  affair  of  this  kind,  madame,"  continued  the  at- 
torney from  Mantes,  suddenly  returning  to  business,  "  there 
are  two  things  which  it  is  most  important  to  know.  In  the 
first  place,  whether  the  property  is  sufficient  to  be  worth 
troubling  about ;  and,  in  the  second,  whom  the  next-of-kin 


COL  SIN  PONS.  275 

may  be;  for  if  the  property  is  the  booty,  the  next-of-kin  is 
the  enemy." 

La  Cibot  immediately  began  to  talk  of  Remonencq  and 
Elie  Magus,  and  said  that  the  shrewd  couple  valued  the  pic- 
tures at  six  hundred  thousand  francs. 

"Would  they  take  them  themselves  at  that  price?"  in- 
quired the  lawyer.  "You  see,  madame,  that  men  of  business 
are  shy  of  pictures.  A  picture  may  mean  a  piece  of  canvas 
worth  a  couple  of  francs  or  a  painting  worth  two  hundred 
thousand.  Now  paintings  worth  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
are  usually  well  known  ;  and  what  errors  in  judgment  people 
make  in  estimating  even  the  most  famous  pictures  of  all  ! 
There  was  once  a  great  captalist  whose  collection  was  admired, 
visited,  and  engraved — actually  engraved  !  He  was  supposed 
to  have  spent  millions  of  francs  on  it.  He  died,  as  men  must ; 
and — well,  his  genuine  pictures  did  not  fetch  more  than  two 
hundred  thousand  francs !  You  must  let  me  see  these  gentle- 
men. Now,  for  the  next-of-kin,"  and  Fraisier  again  relapsed 
into  his  attitude  of  listener. 

When  President  Camusot's  name  came  up,  he  nodded  with 
a  grimace  which  riveted  Mme.  Cibot's  attention.  She  tried 
to  read  the  forehead  and  the  villainous  face,  and  found  what 
is  called  in  business  a  "wooden  head." 

"  Yes,  ray  dear  sir,"  repeated  La  Cibot.  "Yes,  my  Mon- 
sieur Pons  is  own  cousin  to  President  Camusot  de  Marville ; 
he  tells  me  that  ten  times  a  day.  Monsieur  Camusot  the  silk 
mercer  was  married  twice " 

"He  that  has  just  been  nominated  for  a  peer  of  France? 
who " 

" — And  his  first  wife  was  a  Mademoiselle  Pons,  Monsieur 
Pons'  first  cousin." 

"Then  they  are  first  cousins  once  removed " 

"They  are  not  'cousins.'     They  have  quarreled." 

It  may  be  remembered  that  before  M.  Camusot  de  Marville 
came  to  Paris,  he  was  president  of  the  Tribunal  of  Mantes  for 


276  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

five  years ;  and  not  only  was  his  name  still  remembered  there, 
but  he  had  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  Mantes.  Camusot's 
immediate  successor,  the  judge  with  whom  he  had  been  most 
intimate  during  his  term  of  office,  was  still  president  of  the 
Tribunal,  and  consequently  knew  all  about  Fraisier. 

"Do  you  know,  madame,"  Fraisier  said,  when  at  last  the 
red  sluices  of  La  Cibot's  torrent  tongue  were  closed,  "  do  you 
know  that  your  principal  enemy  will  be  a  man  who  can  send 
you  to  the  scaffold  ?  ' ' 

The  portress  started  on  her  chair,  making  a  sudden  spring 
like  a  jack-in-the-box. 

''  Calm  yourself,  dear  madame,"  continued  Fraisier.  "  You 
may  not  have  known  the  name  of  the  president  of  the  Chamber 
of  Indictments  at  the  Court  of  Appeal  in  Paris  ;  but  you  ought 
to  have  known  that  Monsieur  Pons  must  have  an  heir-at-law. 
Monsieur  le  President  de  Marville  is  your  invalid's  sole  heir ; 
but  as  he  is  a  collateral  in  the  third  degree,  Monsieur  Pons  is 
entitled  by  law  to  leave  his  fortune  as  he  pleases.  You  are 
not  aware  either  that,  six  weeks  ago  at  least,  Monsieur  le 
President's  daughter  married  the  eldest  son  of  the  Comte 
Popinot,  peer  of  France,  once  minister  of  agriculture,  and 
president  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  one  of  the  most  influential 
politicians  of  the  day.  President  de  Marville  is  even  more 
formidable  through  this  marriage  than  in  his  own  quality  of 
head  of  the  Court  of  Assize." 

At  that  word  La  Cibot  shuddered. 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  he  who  sends  you  there,"  continued  Fraisier. 
"Ah!  my  dear  madame,  you  little  know  what  a  red  robe 
means  !  It  is  bad  enough  to  have  a  plain  black  gown  against 
you  !  You  see  me  here,  ruined,  bald,  broken  in  health — all 
because,  unwittingly,  I  crossed  a  mere  attorney  for  the  crown 
in  the  provinces.  I  was  forced  to  sell  my  connection  at  a 
loss,  and  very  lucky  I  was  to  come  off  with  the  loss  of  my 
money.  If  I  had  tried  to  stand  out,  my  professional  position 
would  have  gone  as  well. 


COUSIN  PONS.  277 

"One  thing  more  you  do  not  know,"  he  contuiued,  ''and 
tliis  it  is  :  If  you  had  only  to  do  with  President  Camusot  him- 
self, it  would  be  nothing;  but  he  has  a  wife,  mind  you  ! — and 
if  you  ever  find  yourself  face  to  face  with  that  wife,  you  will 
shake  in  your  shoes  as  if  you  were  on  the  first  step  of  the  scaf- 
fold, your  hair  will  stand  on  end.  The  presidente  is  so  vin- 
dictive that  she  would  spend  ten  years  over  setting  a  trap  to 
kill  you.  She  sets  that  husband  of  hers  spinning  like  a  top. 
Through  her  a  charming  young  fellow  committed  suicide  at 
the  Conciergerie.  A  count  was  accused  of  forgery — she  made 
his  character  as  white  as  snow.  She  all  but  drove  a  person  of 
the  highest  quality  from  the  Court  of  Charles  X.  Finally, 
she  displaced  the  Attorney-General,  Monsieur  de  Granville 
from " 

"  That  lived  in  the  Rue  Vieille-du-Temple,  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  Saint-Frangois  !  " 

"The  very  same.  They  say  that  she  means  to  make  her 
husband  home  secretary,  and  I  do  not  know  that  she  will  not 
gain  her  end.  If  she  were  to  take  it  into  her  head  to  send  us 
both  to  the  Criminal  Court  first  and  the  hulks  afterward — I 
should  apply  for  a  passport  and  set  sail  for  America,  though  I 
am  as  innocent  as  a  new-born  babe.  So  well  do  I  know  what 
justice  means.  Now,  see  here,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot;  to 
marry  her  only  daughter  to  young  Vicomte  Popinot  (heir  to 
Monsieur  Pillerault  your  landlord,  it  is  said) — to  make  that 
match,  she  stripped  herself  of  her  whole  fortune,  so  much  so 
that  the  president  and  his  wife  have  nothing  at  this  moment 
except  his  official  salary.  Can  you  suppose,  my  dear  madame, 
that  under  the  circumstances  Madame  la  Presidente  will  let 
Monsieur  Pons'  property  go  out  of  the  family  without  a  word  ! 
Why,  I  would  sooner  iace  guns  loaded  with  grape-shot  than 
have  such  a  woman  for  my  enemy " 

"But  they  have  quarreled,"  put  in  La  Cibot. 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  asked  Fraisier.  "It  is 
one  reason  the  more  for  fearing  her.     To  kill  a  relative  of 


278  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

whom  you  are  tired  is  something ;  but  to  inherit  his  property 
afterward — that  is  a  real  pleasure  !  " 

"  But  the  old  gentleman  has  a  horror  of  his  relatives.  He 
says  over  and  over  again  that  these  people — Messrs.  Cardot, 
Berthier,  and  the  rest  of  them  (I  can't  remember  their  names) 
— have  crushed  him  as  a  tumbril  cart  crushes  an  egg " 

"  Have  you  a  mind  to  be  crushed  too?  " 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!"  cried  La  Cibot.  "Ah!  Ma'am 
Fontaine  was  right  when  she  said  that  I  should  meet  with 
difficulties  :  still,  she  said  that  I  should  succeed " 


"  Listen,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot.  As  for  making  some 
thirty  thousand  francs  out  of  this  business — that  is  possible  ; 
but  for  the  whole  of  the  property,  it  is  useless  to  think  of 
it.  We  talked  over  your  case  yesterday  evening.  Dr.  Poulain 
and  I " 

La  Cibot  started  again. 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  But  if  you  knew  about  the  affair,  why  did  you  let  me 
chatter  away  like  a  magpie  ?  " 

"  Madame  Cibot,  I  knew  all  about  your  business,  but  I 
knew  nothing  of  Madame  Cibot.  So  many  clients,  so  many 
characters " 

Mme.  Cibot  gave  her  legal  adviser  a  queer  look  at  this ;  all 
her  suspicions  gleamed  in  her  eyes.     Fraisier  saw  this. 

"I  resume,"  he  continued.  "So,  our  friend  Poulain  was 
once  called  in  by  you  to  attend  old  Monsieur  Pillerault,  the 
Countess  Popinot's  great-uncle  ;  that  is  one  of  your  claims  to 
my  devotion.  Poulain  goes  to  see  your  landlord  (mark  this!) 
once  a  fortnight  ;  he  learned  all  these  particulars  from  him. 
Monsieur  Pillerault  was  present  at  his  grand-nephew's  wed- 
ding— for  he  is  an  uncle  with  money  to  leave  ;  he  has  an 
income  of  fifteen  thousand  francs,  though  he  has  lived  like  a 
hermit  for  the  last  five-and-twenty  years,  and  scarcely  spends 
a  thousand  crowns — well,  he  told  Poulain  all  about  this  mar- 
riage.    It  seems  that  your   old    musician  was   precisely  the 


COUSIN  PONS.  279 

cause  of  the  row ;  he  tried  to  disgrace  his  own  family  by  way 
of  revenge.  If  you  only  hear  one  bell,  you  only  hear  one 
sound.  Your  invalid  says  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  every- 
body thinks  him  a  monster  of " 

"And  it  would  not  astonish  me  if  he  was!  "  cried  La 
Cibot.  ''  Just  imagine  it  !  For  these  ten  years  past  I  have 
been  money  out  of  pocket  for  him,  spending  my  savings  on 
him,  and  he  knows  it,  and  yet  he  will  not  let  me  lie  down  to 
sleep  on  a  legacy  !  No,  sir  !  he  will  not.  He  is  obstinate,  a 
regular  mule  he  is.  I  have  talked  to  him  these  ten  days,  and 
the  cross-grained  cur  won't  stir  no  more  than  a  sign-post. 

He  shuts  his  teeth  and  looks  at  me  like The  most  that 

he  would  say  was  that  he  would  recommend  me  to  Monsieur 
Schmucke." 

"Then  he  means  to  make  his  will  in  favor  of  this 
Schmucke  ? ' ' 

*'  Everything  will  go  to  him " 

*'  Listen,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot,  if  I  am  to  arrive  at  any 
definite  conclusions  and  think  of  a  plan,  I  must  know  Mon- 
sieur Schmucke.  I  must  see  the  property  and  have  some  talk 
with  this  Jew  of  whom  you  speak  ;  and  then  let  me  direct 
you ' ' 

"We  shall  see,  Monsieur  Fraisier." 

"What  is  this?  'We  shall  see?'"  repeated  Fraisier, 
speaking  in  the  voice  natural  to  him,  as  he  gave  La  Cibot  a 
viperous  glance.  "Am  I  your  legal  adviser  or  am  I  not,  I 
ask?     Let  us  know  exactly  where  we  stand." 

La  Cibot  felt  that  he  read  her  thoughts.  A  cold  chill  ran 
down  her  back. 

"I  have  told  you  all  I  know,"  she  said.  She  saw  that  she 
was  at  the  tiger's  mercy. 

"We  attorneys  are  accustomed  to  treachery.  Just  think 
carefully  over  your  position  ;  it  is  superb.  If  you  follow  my 
advice  point  by  point,  you  will  have  thirty  or  forty  thousand 
francs.     But  there  is  a  reverse  side  to  this  beautiful  medal. 


280  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

How  if  the  presidente  comes  to  hear  that  Monsieur  Pons' 
property  is  worth  a  million  of  francs^  and  that  you  mean  to 
have  a  bite  out  of  it  ?  for  there  is  always  somebody  ready  to 
take  that  kind  of  errand "  he  added  parenthetically. 

This  remark,  and  the  little  pause  that  came  before  and 
after  it,  sent  another  shudder  through  La  Cibot.  She  thought 
at  once  that  Fraisier  himself  would  probably  undertake  that 
office, 

"And  then,  my  dear  client,  in  ten  minutes  old  Pillerault 
is  asked  to  dismiss  you,  and  then  on  a  couple  of  hours' 
notice " 

"What  does  that  matter  to  me?"  said  La  Cibot,  rising  to 
her  feet  like  a  Bellona ;  "I  shall  stay  with  the  gentlemen  as 
their  housekeeper." 

"  And  then  a  trap  will  be  set  for  you,  and  some  fine  morn- 
ing you  and  your  husband  will  wake  up  in  a  prison  cell,  to  be 
tried  for  your  lives " 

"/.? "  cried  La  Cibot ;  "  I  that  have  not  a  sou  that  doesn't 
belong  to  me // //" 

For  five  minutes  she  held  forth,  and  Fraisier  watched  the 
great  artist  before  him  as  she  executed  a  concerto  of  self- 
praise.  He  was  quite  untouched,  and  even  amused  by  the  per- 
formance. His  keen  glances  pricked  La  Cibot  like  stilettos ; 
he  chuckled  inwardly,  till  his  shrunken  wig  was  shaking  with 
laughter.  He  was  a  Robespierre  at  an  age  when  the  Sylla  of 
France  was  still  making  couplets. 

"And  how?  And  why?  And  on  what  pretext?"  de- 
manded she,  when  she  came  to  an  end. 

"You  wish  to  know  how  you  may  come  to  the  guillo- 
tine?" 

La  Cibot  turned  pale  as  death  at  the  words ;  the  words 
fell  like  the  knife  upon  her  neck.  She  stared  wildly  at 
Fraisier. 

"Listen  to  me,  my  dear  child,"  began  Fraisier,  suppressing 
his  inward  satisfaction  at  his  client's  discomfiture. 


COUSIN  PONS.  281 

*'I  would  sooner  leave  things  as  they  are "  murmured 

La  Cibot,  and  she  rose  to  go. 

"Stay,"  Fraisier  said  imperiously.  "You  ought  to  know 
the  risks  that  you  are  running;  I  am  bound  to  give  you  the 
benefit  of  my  lights.  You  are  dismissed  by  Monsieur  Pille- 
rault,  we  will  say ;  there  is  no  doubt  about  that,  is  there  ? 
You  enter  the  service  of  ihese  two  gentlemen.  Very  good  ! 
That  is  a  declaration  of  war  against  the  presidente.  You 
mean  to  do  everything  you  can  to  gain  possession  of  the 
property,  and  to  get  a  slice  out  of  it  at  any  rate 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  blaming  you,"  Fraisier  continued,  in 
answer  to  a  gesture  from  his  client.  "It  is  not  my  place 
to  do  so.  This  is  a  battle,  and  you  will  be  led  on  further 
than  you  think  for.  One  grows  full  of  one's  idea,  one  hits 
hard " 

Another  gesture  of  denial.  This  time  La  Cibot  tossed  her 
head. 

"There,  there,  old  lady,"  said  Fraisier,  with  odious  famil- 
iarity, "  you  will  go  a  very  long  way  ! " 

"  You  take  me  for  a  thief,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Come,  now,  mamma,  you  hold  a  receipt  in  Monsieur 
Schmucke's  hand  which  did  not  cost  you  much.  Ah  !  you 
are  in  the  confessional,  my  lady.  Don't  deceive  youi  con- 
fessor, especially  when  the  confessor  has  tlie  power  of  reading 
your  thoughts." 

La  Cibot  was  dismayed  by  the  man's  ])erspicacity ;  now  she 
knew  why  he  had  listened  to  her  so  intently. 

"Very  good,"  continued  he,  "  you  can  admit  at  once  that 
the  presidente  will  not  allow  you  to  pass  her  in  the  race  for 
the  property.  You  will  be  watched  and  spied  upon.  You 
get  your  name  into  Monsieur  Pons'  will ;  nothing  could  be 
better.  But  some  fine  day  the  law  steps  in,  arsenic  is  found 
in  a  glass,  and  you  and  your  husband  are  arrested,  tried,  and 
condemned  for  attempting  the  life  of  the  Sieur  Pons,  so  as  to 
come  by  your  legacy.     I  once  defended  a  poor  woman  at  Ver- 


282  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

sailles  ;  she  was  in  reality  as  innocent  as  you  would  be  in  such 
a  case.  Things  were  as  I  have  told  you,  and  ail  that  I  could 
do  was  to  save  her  life.  The  unhappy  creature  was  sentenced 
to  twenty  years'  penal  servitude.  She  is  working  out  her  time 
now  at  St.  Lazare." 

Mme.  Cibot's  terror  grew  to  the  highest  pitch.  She  grew 
paler  and  paler,  staring  at  the  little,  thin  man  with  the  green 
eyes,  as  some  wretched  Moor,  accused  of  adhering  to  her  own 
religion,  might  gaze  at  the  inquisitor  who  doomed  her  to  the 
stake. 

"Then  do  you  tell  me  that,  if  I  leave  you  to  act  and  put 
my  interests  in  your  hands,  I  shall  get  something  without 
fear?" 

"I  guarantee  you  thirty  thousand  francs,"  said  Fraisier, 
speaking  like  a  man  sure  of  the  fact. 

"After  all,  you  know  how  fond  I  am  of  dear  Dr.  Poulain," 
she  began  again  in  her  most  coaxing  tones  ;  "he  told  me  to 
come  to  you,  worthy  man,  and  he  did  not  send  me  here  to  be 
told  that  I  shall  be  guillotined  for  poisoning  some  one." 

The  thought  of  the  guillotine  so  moved  her  that  she  burst 
into  tears,  her  nerves  were  shaken,  terror  clutched  at  her 
heart,  she  lost  her  head.  Fraisier  gloated  over  his  triumph. 
When  he  saw  his  client  hesitate,  he  thought  that  he  had  lost  his 
chance ;  he  had  set  himself  to  frighten  and  quell  La  Cibot 
till  she  was  completely  in  his  power,  bound  hand  and  foot. 
She  had  walked  into  his  study  as  a  fly  walks  into  a  spider's 
web;  there  she  was  doomed  to  remain,  entangled  in  the  toils 
of  the  little  lawyer  who  meant  to  feed  upon  her.  Out  of  this 
bit  of  business,  indeed,  Fraisier  meant  to  gain  the  living  of  old 
days:  comfort,  competence,  and  consideration.  He  and  his 
friend.  Dr.  Poulain,  had  spent  the  whole  previous  evening  in 
a  microscopic  examination  of  the  case;  they  had  made  mature 
deliberations.  The  doctor  described  Schmucke  for  his  friend's 
benefit,  and  the  alert  pair  had  plumbed  all  hypotheses  and 
scrutinized  all  risks  and  resources,  till  Fraisier,  exultant,  cried 


COUSIN  PONS.  283 

aloud  :  "  Both  our  fortunes  lie  in  this  !  "  He  had  gone  so  far 
as  to  promise  Poulain  a  hospital,  and,  as  for  himself,  he  meant 
to  be  justice  of  the  peace  of  an  arrondissement. 

To  be  a  justice  of  the  peace  !  For  this  man  with  his  abun- 
dant capacity,  for  this  doctor  of  law  without  a  pair  of  socks  to 
his  name,  the  dream  was  a  hippogriff  so  restive,  that  he  thought 
of  it  as  a  deputy-advocate  thinks  of  the  silk  gown,  as  an  Italian 
priest  thinks  of  the  tiara.     It  was,  iiideed,  a  wild  dream  ! 

M.  Vitel,  the  justice  of  the  peace  before  whom  Fraisier 
pleaded,  was  a  man  of  sixty-nine,  in  failing  health  ;  he  talked 
of  retiring  on  a  pension  ;  and  Fraisier  used  to  talk  with  Poulain 
of  succeeding  him,  much  as  Poulain  talked  of  saving  the  life  of 
some  rich  heiress  and  marrying  her  afterward.  No  one  knows 
how  greedily  every  post  in  the  gift  of  authority  is  sought 
after  in  Paris.  Every  one  wants  to  live  in  Paris.  If  a 
stamp  or  tobacco  license  falls  in,  a  hundred  women  rise  up 
as  one  and  stir  all  their  friends  to  obtain  it.  Any  vacancy 
in  the  ranks  of  the  twenty-four  collectors  of  taxes  sends 
a  flood  of  ambitious  folk  surging  in  upon  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies.  Decisions  are  made  in  committee,  all  appoint- 
ments are  made  by  the  Government.  Now  the  salary  of  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  the  lowest  stipendiary  magistrate  in  Paris, 
is  about  six  thousand  francs.  The  post  of  registrar  to  the 
court  is  worth  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  Few  places  are 
more  coveted  in  the  administration.  Fraisier,  as  a  justice  of 
the  peace,  with  the  head-physician  of  a  hospital  for  his  friend, 
would  make  a  rich  marriage  himself  and  a  good  match  for  Dr. 
Poulain.     Each  would  lend  a  hand  to  each. 

Night  set  its  leaden  seal  upon  the  ])lans  made  by  the  some- 
time attorney  of  Mantes,  and  a  formidable  scheme  sprouted 
up,  a  flourishing  scheme,  fertile  in  harvests  of  gain  and  in- 
trigue. La  Cibot  was  the  hinge  upon  which  the  whole  matter 
turned  ;  and  for  this  reason,  any  rebellion  on  the  part  of  the 
instrument  must  be  at  once  put  down  ;  such  action  on  her 
part  was  quite  unexpected ;  but  Fraisier  had  put  forth  all  the 


284  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

strength  of  his  rancorous  nature,  and  the  audacious  portress 
lay  trampled  under  his  feet. 

"Come,  reassure  yourself,  my  dear  madame,"  he  remarked, 
holding  out  his  hand.  The  touch  of  the  cold,  serpent-like  skin 
made  a  terrible  impression  upon  the  portress.  It  brought  about 
something  like  a  physical  reaction,  which  checked  her  emo- 
tion ;  Mme.  Fontaine's  toad,  Astaroth,  seemed  to  her  to  be 
less  deadly  than  this  poison-sac  that  wore  a  sandy  wig  and 
spoke  in  tones  like  the  creaking  of  a  hinge. 

"  Do  not  imagine  that  I  am  frightening  you  to  no  purpose," 
Fraisier  continued.  (La  Cibot's  feeling  of  repulsion  had  not 
escaped  him.)  "The  affairs  which  made  Madame  la  Presi- 
dente's  dreadful  reputation  are  so  well  known  at  the  law- 
courts,  that  you  can  make  inquiries  there  if  you  like.  The 
great  person  who  was  all  but  sent  into  a  lunatic  asylum  was 
the  Marquis  d'Espard.  The  Marquis  d'Escrignon  was  saved 
from  the  hulks.  The  handsome  young  man  with  wealth  and 
a  great  future  before  him,  who  was  to  have  married  a  daughter 
of  one  of  the  first  families  of  France,  and  hanged  himself  in  a 
cell  of  the  Conciergerie,  was  the  celebrated  Lucien  de  Ru- 
bempre  ;*  the  affair  made  a  great  deal  of  noise  in  Paris  at  the 
time.  That  was  the  question  of  a  will.  His  mistress,  the 
notorious  Esther,  died  and  left  him  several  millions,  and  they 
accused  the  young  fellow  of  poisoning  her.  He  was  not  even 
in  Paris  at  the  time  of  her  death,  nor  did  he  so  much  as  know 
that  the  woman  had  left  the  money  to  him  !  One  cannot 
well  be  more  innocent  than  that !  Well,  after  Monsieur 
Camusot  examined  him,  he  hanged  himself  in  his  cell.  Law, 
like  medicine,  has  its  victims.  In  the  first  case,  one  man 
suffers  for  the  many,  and,  in  the  second,  he- dies  for  science," 
he  added,  and  an  ugly  smile  stole  over  his  lips.  "Well,  I 
know  the  risks  myself,  you  see ;  poor  and  obscure  little  at- 
torney as  I  am,  the  law  has  been  the  ruin  of  me.  My  ex- 
perience was  dearly  bouglit — it  is  all  at  your  service." 
*  See  "  The  Harlot's  Progress." 


COUSIN  PONS.  285 

"■  Thank  you,  no,"  said  La  Cibot ;  "  I  won't  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  upon  my  word  !  I  shall  have  nourished  ingrati- 
tude, that  is  all !  I  don't  want  nothing  but  my  due;  I  have 
thirty  years  of  honesty  behind  me,  sir.  Monsieur  Pons  says 
that  he  will  recommend  me  to  his  friend  Schmucke  ;  well  and 
good,  I  shall  end  my  days  in  peace  with  the  German,  good 
man." 

Fraisier  had  overshot  his  mark.  He  had  discouraged  La 
Cibot.  Now  he  was  obliged  to  remove  these  unpleasant  im- 
pressions. 

"  Do  not  let  us  give  up,"  he  said;  "just  go  away  quietly 
home.     Come,  now,  we  will  steer  the  affair  to  a  good  end." 

"  But  what  about  my  rentes,  what  am  I  to  do  to  get  them, 
and " 

''And  feel  no  remorse?"  he  interrupted  quickly.  "  Eh  ! 
it  is  precisely  for  that  that  men  of  business  were  invented ; 
unless  you  keep  within  the  law,  you  get  nothing.  You  know 
nothing  of  law  ;  I  know  a  good  deal.  I  will  see  that  you  keep 
on  the  right  side  of  it,  and  you  can  hold  your  own  in  all  men's 
sight.     As  for  your  conscience,  that  is  your  own  affair." 

"Very  well,  tell  me  how  to  do  it,"  returned  La  Cibot, 
curious  and  delighted. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  yet.  I  have  not  looked  at  the  strong 
points  of  the  case  yet ;  I  have  been  busy  with  the  obstacles. 
But  the  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  urge  him  to  make  a  will ; 
you  cannot  go  wrong  over  that ;  and  find  out,  first  of  all,  how 
Pons  means  to  leave  his  fortune  ;  for  if  you  were  his  heir " 

"  No,  no;  he  does  not  like  me.  Ah  !  if  I  had  but  known 
the  value  of  his  gimcracks,  and  if  I  had  known  what  I  know 
now  about  his  amours,  I  should  be  easy  in  my  mind  this  day 
and " 

"  Keep  on,  in  fact,"  broke  in  Fraisier,  "  Dying  folk  have 
queer  fancies,  my  dear  madame  ;  they  disappoint  hopes  many  a 
time.  Let  him  make  his  will  and  then  we  shall  see.  And 
of  all  things,  the  property  must  be  valued.     So  I  must  see 


286  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

this  Remonencq  and  the  Jew  ;  they  will  be  very  useful  to  us. 
Put  entire  confidence  in  me,  I  am  at  your  disposal.  When  a 
client  is  a  friend  to  me,  I  am  his  friend  through  thick  and 
thin.     Friend  or  enemy,  that  is  my  character." 

"Very  well,"  said  La  Cibot,  "  I  am  yours  entirely;  and  as 
for  fees,  Monsieur  Poulain " 

"Let  us  say  nothing  about  that,"  said  Fraisier.  "Think 
how  you  can  keep  Poulain  at  the  bedside ;  he  is  one  of  the 
most  upright  and  conscientious  men  I  know ;  and,  you  see,  we 
want  some  one  there  whom  we  can  trust.  Poulain  would  do 
better  than  I;  I  have  lost  my  character." 

"You  look  as  if  you  had,"  said  La  Cibot;  "but,  for  my 
own  part,  I  should  trust  you." 

"And  you  would  do  well.  Come  to  see  me  whenever  any- 
thing happens — and — there  ! — you  are  an  intelligent  woman  ; 
all  will  go  well." 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  Fraisier.  I  hope  you  will  recover 
your  health.     Your  servant,  sir." 

Fraisier  went  to  the  door  with  his  client.  But  this  time  it 
was  he,  and  not  La  Cibot,  who  was  struck  with  an  idea  on  the 
threshold. 

"  If  you  could  persuade  Monsieur  Pons  to  call  me  in,  it 
would  be  a  great  step." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  La  Cibot. 

Fraisier  drew  her  back  into  his  sanctum.  "  Look  here,  old 
lady,  I  know  Monsieur  Trognon,  the  notary  of  the  quarter, 
very  well.  If  Monsieur  Pons  has  not  a  notary,  mention  Mon- 
sieur Trognon  to  him.  Make  him  take  this  Monsieur  Tro- 
gnon  " 

"  Right,"  returned  La  Cibot. 

And  as  she  came  out  again  she  heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress 
and  the  sound  of  a  stealthy,  heavy  footstep. 

Out  in  the  street  and  by  herself,  Mme.  Cibot  to  some  ex- 
tent recovered  her  liberty  of  mind  as  she  walked.  Though 
the  influence  of  the  conversation  was  still  upon  her,  and  she 


COUSIN  PONS.  287 

had  always  stood  in  dread  of  scaffolds.,  justice,  and  judges,  she 
took  a  very  natural  resolution  which  was  to  bring  about  a  con- 
flict of  strategy  between  her  and  her  formidable  legal  adviser. 
"What  do  I  want  with  other  people?  "  said  she  to  herself. 
"Let  us  make  a  round  sum,  and  afterward  I  will  take  all 
that  they  offer  me  to  push  their  interests;  "  and  this  thought, 
as  will  shortly  be  seen,  hastened  the  poor  old  musician's  end. 

"Well,  dear  Monsieur  Schmucke,  and  how  is  our  dear, 
adored  patient?  "  asked  La  Cibot,  as  she  came  into  the  room. 

"  Fery  bad  ;  Bons  haf  been  vandering  all  der  night." 

"Then,  what  did  he  say?" 

"  Chust  nonsense.  He  vould  dot  I  haf  all  his  fortune,  on 
kondition  dot  I  sell  nodings.  Den  he  cried  !  Boor  man  ! 
It  made  me  ver'  sad." 

"Never  mind,  honey,"  returned  the  portress.  "I  have 
kept  you  waiting  for  your  breakfast ;  it  is  nine  o'clock  and 
past;  but  don't  scold  me.  I  have  business  on  hand,  you  see, 
business  of  yours.  Here  are  we,  without  any  money,  and  I 
have  been  out  to  get  some." 

"  Vere  ?  "  asked  Schmucke. 

"Of  my  uncle." 

"Onkel?" 

"Up  the  spout." 

"Shpout?  " 

"Oh,  the  dear  man  !  how  simple  he  is!  No,  you  are  a 
saint,  a  love,  an  archbishop  of  innocence,  a  man  that  ought 
to  be  stuffed,  as  the  old  actor  said.  What !  you  have  lived  in 
Paris  for  twenty-nine  years ;  you  saw  the  Revolution  of  July, 
you  did,  and  you  haven't  never  so  much  as  heard  tell  of  a  pawn- 
broker— a  man  that  lends  you  money  on  your  things  ?  I  have 
been  pawning  our  silver  spoons  and  forks,  eiglit  of  them, 
thread  pattern.  Pooh,  Cibot  can  eat  his  victuals  with  horrid 
German  silver  ;  it  is  quite  the  fashion  now,  they  say.  It  is 
not  worth  while  to  say  anything  to  our  angel  there;   it  woulcl 


288  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

upset  him  and  make  him  yellower  than  before,  and  he  is  quite 
cross  enough  as  it  is.  Let  us  get  round  him  again  first,  and 
afterward  we  shall  see.  What  must  be  must ;  and  we  must 
take  things  as  we  find  them,  eh  ?  " 

"  Goot  voman  !  nople  heart  !  "  cried  poor  Schmucke,  with 
a  great  tenderness  in  his  face.  He  took  La  Cibot's  hand  and 
clasped  it  to  his  breast.  When  he  looked  up,  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

"There,  that  will  do.  Papa  Schmucke;  how  funny  you  are! 
This  is  too  bad.  I'm  an  old  daughter  of  the  people — my  heart 
is  in  my  hand.  I  have  something  here,  you  see,  like  you 
have,  hearts  of  gold  that  you  are,"  she  added,  slapping  her 
chest. 

"  Baba  Schmucke  !  "  continued  the  musician.  "  No.  To 
know  de  tepths  of  sorrow,  to  cry  mit  tears  of  blood,  to 
mount  up  in  der  hefn — dat  is  mein  lot !  I  shall  not  lif  after 
Pons " 

"  Gracious  !  I  am  sure  you  won't,  you  are  killing  yourself. 
Listen,  pet !  " 

"Bet?" 

"Very  well,  my  sonny " 

"Zonny?" 

"  My  lamb,  then,  if  you  like  it  better." 

"  It  is  not  more  clear." 

"  Oh,  well,  let  me  take  care  of  you  and  tell  you  what  to 
do ;  for  if  you  go  on  like  this,  I  shall  have  both  of  you  laid 
up  on  my  hands,  you  see.  To  my  little  way  of  thinking,  we 
must  do  the  work  between  us.  You  cannot  go  about  Paris  to 
give  lessons,  for  it  tires  you,  and  then  you  are  not  fit  to  do 
anything  afterward,  and  somebody  must  sit  up  of  a  night  with 
Monsieur  Pons,  now  that  he  is  getting  worse  and  worse.  I 
will  run  round  to-day  to  all  your  pupils  and  tell  them  that  you 
are  ill ;  is  it  not  so  ?  And  then  you  can  spend  the  nights  with 
our  lamb,  and  sleep  of  a  morning  from  five  o'clock  till,  let  us 
say,  two  in  the  afternoon.     I   myself  will  take  the  day,  the 


COUSIN  PONS.  289 

most  tiring  part,  for  there  is  your  breakfast  and  dinner  to  get 
ready,  and  the  bed  to  make,  and  the  things  to  change,  and  the 
doses  of  medicine  to  give.  I  could  not  hold  out  for  another 
ten  days  at  this  rate.  It  is  a  month  and  more  already  since 
I  have  been  like  this.  What  would  become  of  you  if  I  were 
to  fall  ill  ?  And  you  yourself,  it  makes  one  shudder  to  see 
you ;  just  look  at  yourself,  after  sitting  up  with  him  last 
night!" 

She  drew  Schmucke  to  the  glass,  and  Schmucke  thought 
that  there  was  a  great  change. 

"  So,  if  you  are  of  my  mind,  I'll  have  your  breakfast  ready 
in  a  jiffy.  Then  you  will  look  after  our  poor  dear  again  till 
two  o'clock.  Let  me  have  a  list  of  your  people,  and  I  will 
soon  arrange  it.  You  will  be  free  for  a  fortnight.  You  can 
go  to  bed  when  I  come  in,  and  sleep  till  night." 

So  prudent  did  the  proposition  seem,  that  Schmucke  then 
and  there  agreed  to  it. 

"  Not  a  word  to  Monsieur  Pons  ;  he  would  think  it  was  all 
over  with  him,  you  know,  if  we  were  to  tell  him  in  this  way 
that  his  engagement  at  the  theatre  and  his  lessons  are  put  off. 
He  would  be  thinking  that  he  should  not  find  his  pupils  again, 
poor  gentleman — stuff  and  nonsense  !  Monsieur  Poulain  says 
that  we  shall  save  our  Benjamin  if  we  keep  him  as  quiet  as 
possible." 

"  Ach  !  fery  goot !  Pring  up  der  preakfast  ;  I  shall  make 
der  bett,  and  gif  you  die  attresses  !  You  are  right ;  it  vould 
pe  too  much  for  me." 

An  hour  later  La  Cibot,  in  her  Sunday  clothes,  departed  in 
great  state,  to  the  no  small  astonishment  of  the  Remonencqs ; 
she  promised  herself  that  she  would  support  the  character  of 
confidential  servant  of  the  pair  of  nutcrackers,  in  the  boarding- 
schools  and  private  families  in  which  they  gave  music-lessons. 

It  is  needless  to  repeat  all  the  gossip  in  which  La  Cibot 
indulged  on  her  round.     The  members  of  every  family,  the 
head-mistress  of  every  boarding-school,  were  treated  to  a  vari- 
19 


290  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

ation  upon  the  theme  of  Pons'  illness.  A  single  scene,  which 
took  place  in  the  Illustrious  Gaudissart's  private  room,  will 
give  a  sufficient  idea  of  the  rest.  La  Cibot  met  with  unheard- 
of  difficulties,  but  she  succeeded  in  penetrating  at  last  to  the 
presence.  Kings  and  cabinet  ministers  are  less  difficult  of 
access  than  the  manager  of  a  theatre  in  Paris ;  nor  is  it  hard 
to  understand  why  such  prodigious  barriers  are  raised  between 
them  and  ordinary  mortals :  a  king  has  only  to  defend  him- 
self from  ambition  ;  the  manager  of  a  theatre  has  reason  to 
dread  the  wounded  vanity  of  actors  and  authors. 

La  Cibot,  however,  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  the 
portress,  and  traversed  all  distances  in  a  brief  space.  There 
is  a  sort  of  freemasonry  among  the  janitor  tribe,  and,  indeed, 
among  the  members  of  every  profession  ;  for  each  calling  has 
its  shibboleth,  as  well  as  its  insulting  epithet  and  the  mark 
with  which  it  brands  its  followers. 

"Ah!  madame,  you  are  the  portress  here,"  began  La 
Cibot.  "  I  myself  am  a  janitor,  in  a  small  way,  in  a  house 
in  the  Rue  de  Normandie.  Monsieur  Pons,  your  conductor, 
lodges  with  us.  Oh,  how  glad  I  should  be  to  have  your 
place,  and  see  the  actors  and  dancers  and  authors  go  past. 
It  is  the  marshal's  baton  in  our  profession,  as  the  old  actor 
said." 

"And  how  is  Monsieur  Pons  going  on,  the  good  man?" 
inquired  the  portress. 

''  He  is  not  going  on  at  all ;  he  has  not  left  his  bed  these 
two  months.  He  will  only  leave  the  house  feet  foremost,  that 
is  certain." 

"  He  will  be  missed." 

"  Yes.  I  have  come  with  a  message  to  the  manager  from 
him.     Just  try  to  get  me  a  word  with  him,  dear." 

"  A  lady  from  Monsieur  Pons  to  see  you,  sir  !  "  After  this 
fashion  did  the  youth  attached  to  the  service  of  the  manager's 
office  announce  Mme.  Cibot,  whom  the  portress  below  had 
particularly  recommended  to  his  care. 


COUSIN  PONS.  291 

Gaudissart  had  just  come  in  for  a  rehearsal.  Chance  so 
ordered  it  that  no  one  wished  to  speak  with  him  ;  actors  and 
authors  were  alike  late  Delighted  to  have  news  of  his  con- 
ductor, he  made  a  Napoleonic  gesture,  and  La  Cibot  was  ad- 
mitted. 

The  sometime  commercial  traveler,  now  the  head  of  a 
popular  theatre,  regarded  his  sleeping  partners  in  the  light  of 
a  legitimate  wife  ;  they  were  not  informed  of  all  his  doings. 
The  flourishing  state  of  his  finances  had  reacted  upon  his  per- 
son. Grown  big  and  stout  and  high-colored  with  good  cheer 
and  prosperity,  Gaudissart  made  no  disguise  of  his  transforma- 
tion into  a  Mondor. 

"We  are  turning  into  a  city-father,"  he  once  said,  trying 
to  be  the  first  to  laugh. 

"You  are  only  in  the  Turcaret  stage  yet,  though,"  repeated 
Bixiou,  who  often  replaced  Gaudissart  in  the  company  of  the 
leading  lady  of  the  ballet,  the  celebrated  Heloi'se  Brisetout. 

The  former  Illustrious  Gaudissart,  in  fact,  was  exploiting 
the  theatre  simply  and  solely  for  his  own  particular  benefit, 
and  with  brutal  disregard  of  other  interests.  He  first  insin- 
uated himself  as  collaborator  in  various  ballets,  plays,  and 
vaudevilles ;  then  he  waited  till  the  author  wanted  money  and 
bought  up  the  other  half  of  the  copyright.  These  after- 
pieces and  vaudevilles,  always  added  to  successful  plays, 
brought  him  in  a  daily  harvest  of  gold  coins.  He  trafficked 
by  proxy  in  tickets,  allotting  a  certain  number  to  himself,  as 
the  manager's  share,  till  he  took  in  this  way  a  tithe  of  the 
receipts.  And  Gaudissart  had  other  methods  of  making 
money  beside  these  official  contributions.  He  sold  boxes,  he 
took  presents  from  indifferent  actresses  burning  to  go  upon 
the  stage  to  fill  small  speaking  parts,  or  simply  to  appear  as 
queens,  or  pages,  and  the  like;  he  swelled  his  nominal  third 
share  of  the  profits  to  such  purpose  that  the  sleeping  partners 
scarcely  received  one-tenth  instead  of  the  remaining  two- 
thirds  of  the  net  receipts.     Even  so,  however,  the  tenth  paid 


292  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

them  a  dividend  of  fifteen  per  cent,  on  their  capital.  On  the 
strength  of  that  fifteen  per  cent.  Gaudissart  talked  of  his  in- 
telligence, honesty,  and  zeal,  and  the  good  fortune  of  his 
partners.  When  Count  Popinot,  showing  an  interest  in  the 
concern,  asked  Matifat,  or  General  Gouraud  (Matifat's  son- 
in-law),  or  Crevel,  whether  they  were  satisfied  with  Gaudis- 
sart, Gouraud,  now  a  peer  of  France,  answered  :  "  They  say 
he  robs  us ;  but  he  is  such  a  clever,  good-natured  fellow,  that 
we  are  quite  satisfied." 

"This  is  like  La  Fontaine's  fable,"  smiled  the  ex-cabinet 
minister. 

Gaudissart  found  investments  for  his  capital  in  other  ven- 
tures. He  thought  well  of  Schwab,  Brunner,  and  the  Graffs ; 
that  firm  was  promoting  railways,  he  became  a  shareholder  in 
the  lines.  His  shrewdness  was  carefully  hidden  beneath  the 
frank  carelessness  of  a  man  of  pleasure ;  he  seemed  to  be  in- 
terested in  nothing  but  amusements  and  dress,  yet  he  thought 
everything  over,  and  his  wide  experience  of  business  gained 
as  a  commercial  traveler  stood  him  in  good  stead. 

A  self-made  man,  he  did  not  take  himself  seriously.  He 
gave  suppers  and  banquets  to  celebrities  in  rooms  sumptuously 
furnished  by  the  house  decorator.  Showy  by  nature,  with  a 
taste  for  doing  things  handsomely,  he  affected  an  easy-going 
air,  and  seemed  so  much  the  less  formidable  because  he  had 
kept  the  slang  of  "the  road"  (to  use  his  own  expression), 
with  a  few  green-room  phrases  superadded.  Now,  artists  in 
the  theatrical  profession  are  wont  to  express  themselves  with 
some  vigor  5  Gaudissart  borrowed  sufficient  racy  green-room 
talk  to  blend  with  his  commercial  traveler's  lively  jocularity, 
and  passed  for  a  wit.  He  was  thinking  at  that  moment  of 
selling  his  license  and  "going  into  another  line,"  as  he  said. 
He  thought  of  being  president  of  a  railroad  company,  of  be- 
coming a  responsible  person  and  an  administrator,  and  finally 
of  marrying  Mile.  Minard,  daughter  of  the  richest  mayor  in 
Paris.     He  might  hope  to  get  into  the  Chamber  through  "  his 


COUSIN  PONS.  293 

line,"  and,  with  Popinot's  influence,  to  take  office  under  tlie 
Government. 

"Whom  have  I  the  honor  of  addressing?"  inquired  Gau- 
dissart,  looking  magisterially  at  La  Cibot. 

"I  am  Monsieur  Pons'  confidential  servant,  sir,"  answered 
Mme.  Cibot. 

"  Well,  and  how  is  the  dear  fellow?  " 

"111,  sir— very  ill." 

"The  devil  he  is !  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it — I  must  come  and 
see  him ;  he  is  such  a  man  as  you  don't  often  find." 

"Ah  yes!  sir,  he  is  a  cherub,  he  is.  I  have  always  won- 
dered how  he  came  to  be  in  a  theatre." 

"  Why,  madame,  the  theatre  is  a  house  of  correction  for 
morals,"  said  Gaudissart,  "Poor  Pons!  Upon  my  word, 
one  ought  to  cultivate  the  species  to  keep  up  the  stock.  'Tis 
a  pattern  man,  and  has  talent  too.  When  will  he  be  able  to 
take  his  orchestra  again,  do  you  think?  A  theatre,  unfor- 
tunately, is  like  a  stage-coach  :  empty  or  full,  it  starts  at  the 
same  time.  Here,  at  six  o'clock  every  evening,  up  goes  the 
curtain  ;  and  if  we  are  never  so  sorry  for  ourselves,  it  won't 
make  good  music.     Let  us  see  now — how  is  he?  " 

La  Cibot  pulled  out  her  pocket-handkerchief  and  held  it  to 
her  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  say,  my  dear  sir,"  said  she  ;  "  but 
I  am  afraid  we  shall  lose  him,  though  we  are  as  careful  of  him 
as  of  the  apple  of  our  eyes.  And,  at  the  same  time,  I  came 
to  say  that  you  must  not  count  on  Monsieur  Schmucke, 
worthy  man,  for  he  is  going  to  sit  up  with  him  at  night.  One 
cannot  help  doing  as  if  there  was  hope  still  left,  and  trying 
one's  best  to  snatch  the  dear,  good  soul  from  death.  But 
the  doctor  has  given  him  up " 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?" 

"He  is  dying  of  grief,  jaundice,  and  liver  complaint,  with 
a  lot  of  family  affairs  to  complicate  matters." 

"  And  a  doctor  as  well,"  said  Gaudissart.     "  He  ought  to 


294  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

have  had  Lebrun,  our  doctor ;  it  would  have  cost  him 
nothing." 

"  Monsieur  Pons'  doctor  is  a  Providence  on  earth.  But 
what  can  a  doctor  do,  no  matter  how  clever  he  is,  with  such 
complications  !  " 

"  I  wanted  the  good  pair  of  nutcrackers  badly  for  the  accom- 
paniment of  my  new  fairy  piece." 

"  Is  it  anything  that  I  can  do  for  them?  "  asked  La  Cibot, 
and  her  expression  would  have  done  credit  to  a  Jocrisse. 

Gaudissart  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  am  their  housekeeper,  sir,  and  do  many  things  my  gentle- 
men  "     She  did  not  finish  her  speech,  for  in  the  middle 

of  Gaudissart's  roar  of  laughter  a  woman's  voice  exclaimed, 
"  If  you  are  laughing,  old  man,  one  may  come  in,"  and  the 
leading  lady  of  the  ballet  rushed  into  the  room  and  flung  her- 
self upon  the  only  sofa.  The  new-comer  was  Helo'ise  Brise- 
tout,  with  a  splendid  algerienne,  as  such  scarfs  used  to  be 
called,  about  her  shoulders. 

"  Who  is  amusing  you?  Is  it  this  lady?  What  post  does 
she  want  ? "  asked  this  nymph,  giving  the  manager  such  a 
glance  as  artist  gives  artist,  a  glance  that  would  make  a  sub- 
ject for  a  picture. 

Heloise,  a  young  woman  of  exceedingly  literary  tastes,  was 
on  intimate  terms  with  great  and  famous  artists  in  bohemia. 
Elegant,  accomplished,  and  graceful,  she  was  more  intelligent 
than  dancers  usually  are.  As  she  put  her  question,  she  sniffed 
at  a  scent-bottle  full  of  some  aromatic  perfume. 

"  One  fine  woman  is  as  good  as  another,  madame ;  and  if  I 
don't  sniff  the  pestilence  out  of  a  scent-bottle,  nor  daub 
brick-dust  on  my  cheeks " 

"  That  would  be  a  sinful  waste,  child,  when  Nature  put  it  on 
for  you  to  begin  with,"  said  Heloise,  with  a  side-glance  at  her 
manager. 

**  I  am  an  honest  woman " 


"  So  much  the  worse  for  you.     It  is  not  every  one  by  a 


COUSIN  PONS.  295 

long  clialk  that  can  find  some  one  to  keep  them,  and  kept  I 
am,  and  in  slap-up  style,  madame." 

"  So  much  the  worse  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Oh,  you  may 
toss  your  head  and  go  about  in  scarfs,  you  will  never  have 
as  many  declarations  as  /  have  had,  missus.  You  will  never 
match  the  Belle  Ecaillere  of  the  Cadran  Bleu." 

HeloYse  Brisetout  rose  at  once  to  her  feet,  stood  at  attention, 
and  made  a  military  salute,  like  a  soldier  who  meets  his 
general. 

"What?"  asked  Gaudissart,  "are  you  really  La  Belle 
Ecaillere  of  whom  my  father  used  to  talk?  " 

"  In  that  case  the  cachucha  and  the  polka  were  after  your 
time;  and  madame  has  passed  her  fiftieth  year,"  remarked 
HeloVse,  and,  striking  an  attitude,  she  declaimed,  "  '  Cinna, 
let  us  be  friends.'  " 

"  Come,  Heloise,  come,  the  lady  is  not  up  to  this;  let  her 
alone." 

"  Madame  is  perhaps  the  New  HeloTse,"  suggested  LaCibot, 
with  sly  innocence. 

"  Not  bad,  old  lady  !  "  cried  Gaudissart. 

"  It  is  a  venerable  joke,"  said  the  dancer,  "  a  grizzled  pun  ; 
find  us  another  old  lady — or  take  a  cigarette." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,  I  feel  too  unhappy  to  answer 
you  ;  my  two  gentlemen  are  very  ill ;  and,  to  buy  nourishment 
for  them  and  to  spare  them  trouble,  I  have  pawned  everything 
down  to  my  husband's  clothes  that  I  pledged  this  morning. 
Here  is  the  ticket!  " 

"Oh  !  here,  the  affair  is  becoming  tragic,"  cried  the  fair 
Heloise.     "  What  is  it  all  about  ?  " 

"  Madame  drops  down  upon  us  like " 

"Like  a  dancer,"  said  Heloise;  "let  me  prompt  you, 
missus  !  ' ' 

"Come,  I  am  busy,"  said  Gaudissart.  "The  joke  has 
gone  far  enough.  Heloise,  this  is  Monsieur  Pons'  confidential 
servant ;  she  has  come  to  tell  me  that  I  must  not  count  upon 


296  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

him ;  our  poor  conductor  is  not  expected  to  live.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

"Oh  !  poor  man  ;  why,  he  must  have  a  benefit." 

"It  would  ruin  him,"  said  Gaudissart.  "He  might  find 
next  day  that  he  owed  five  hundred  francs  to  charitable  insti- 
tutions, and  they  refuse  to  admit  that  there  are  any  sufferers 
in  Paris  except  their  own.  No,  look  here,  my  good  woman, 
since  you  are  going  in  for  the  Montyon  prize " 

He  broke  off,  rang  the  bell,  and  the  youth  before  mentioned 
suddenly  appeared. 

"Tell  the  cashier  to  send  me  up  a  thousand -franc  bill. 
Sit  down,  madame." 

"Ah!  poor  woman,  look,  she  is  crying!"  exclaimed 
HeloTse.  "  How  stupid  !  There,  there,  mother,  we  will  go 
to  see  him;  don't  cry.  I  say,  now,"  she  continued,  taking 
the  manager  into  a  corner,  "you  want  to  make  me  take  the 
leading  part  in  the  ballet  in  'Ariane,'  you  Turk.  You  are 
going  to  be  married,  and  you  know  how  I  can  make  you 
miserable " 

"  HeloTse,  my  heart  is  copper-bottomed  like  a  man-of-war." 

"I  shall  bring  your  children  on  the  scene  !  I  will  borrow 
some  somewhere." 

"I  have  owned  up  about  the  attachment." 

"  Do  be  nice,  and  give  Pons'  post  to  Garangeot ;  he  has 
talent,  poor  fellow,  and  he  has  not  a  penny  ;  and  I  promise 
peace." 

"  But  wait  till  Pons  is  dead,  in  case  the  good  man  may 
come  back  again." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  no,  sir,"  said  La  Cibot.  "He  began  to 
wander  in  his  mind  last  night,  and  now  he  is  delirious.  It 
will  soon  be  over,  unfortimately." 

"At  any  rate,  take  Garangeot  as  a  stop-gap!"  pleaded 
Helo'ise.     "  He  has  the  whole  press  on  his  side " 

Just  at  that  moment  the  cashier  came  in  with  a  bill  for  a 
thousand  francs  in  his  hand. 


COUSIN  PONS.  297 

"Give  it  to  madame  here,"  said  Gaudissart.  "  Good-day, 
my  good  woman  ;  take  good  care  of  the  dear  man,  and  tell 
him  that  I  am  coming  to  see  him  to-morrow,  or  some  time — 
as  soon  as  I  can,  in  short." 

"  A  drowning  man,"  said  HeloTse.* 

"  Ah,  sir,  hearts  like  yours  are  only  found  in  a  theatre. 
May  God  bless  you  !  " 

"To  what  account  shall  I  post  this  item?"  asked  the 
cashier. 

"I  will  countersign  the  order.  Post  it  to  the  bonus  ac- 
count." 

Before  La  Cibot  went  out,  she  made  Mile.  Brisetout  a  fine 
curtsey,  and  heard  Gaudissart  remark  to  his  mistress — 

"  Can  Garangeot  do  the  dance-music  for  the  '  Mohicans ' 
jn  twelve  days?  If  he  helps  me  out  of  my  predicament  he 
shall  have  Pons'  place." 

La  Cibot  had  cut  off  the  incomes  of  the  two  friends,  she 
had  left  them  without  means  of  subsistence  if  Pons  should 
chance  to  recover,  and  was  better  rewarded  for  all  this  mis- 
chief than  for  any  good  that  she  had  done.  In  a  few  days' 
time  her  treacherous  trick  would  bring  about  the  desired  result 
— Elie  Magus  would  have  his  coveted  pictures.  But  if  this  first 
spoliation  was  to  be  effected,  La  Cibot  must  throw  dust  in 
Fraisier's  eyes,  and  lull  the  suspicions  of  that  terrible  fellow- 
conspirator  of  her  own  seeking;  and  Elie  Magus  and  Remon- 
encq  must  be  bound  over  to  secrecy. 

As  for  Remonencq,  he  had  gradually  come  to  feel  such  a 
passion  as  uneducated  people  can  conceive  when  they  come 
to  Paris  from  the  depths  of  the  country,  bringing  with  them 
all  the  fixed  ideas  bred  of  the  solitary  country  life  ;  all  the 
ignorance  of  a  primitive  nature,  all  the  brute  appetites  that 
become  so  many  fixed  ideas.  Mme.  Cibot's  masculine  beauty, 
her  vivacity,  her  market-woman's  wit,  had  all  been  remarked 
by  the  marine-store-dealer.  He  thought  at  first  of  taking  La 
*  A  former  mistress  of  Celestin  Crevel.     See  "  Cousin  Betty." 


298  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

Cibot  from  her  husband,  bigamy  among  the  lower  classes  in 
Paris  being  much  more  common  than  is  generally  supposed  ; 
but  greed  was  like  a  slip-knot  drawn  more  and  more  tightly 
about  his  heart,  till  reason  at  length  was  stifled.  When 
Remonencq  computed  that  the  commission  paid  by  himself 
and  Elie  Magus  amounted  to  about  forty  thousand  francs,  he 
determined  to  have  La  Cibot  for  his  legitimate  spouse,  and 
his  thoughts  turned  from  a  misdemeanor  to  a  crime.  A  ro- 
mantic purely  speculative  dream,  persistently  followed  through 
a  tobacco-smoker's  long  musings  as  he  lounged  in  the  door- 
way, had  brought  him  to  the  point  of  wishing  that  the  little 
tailor  were  dead.  At  a  stroke  he  beheld  his  capital  trebled  ; 
and  then  he  thought  of  La  Cibot.  What  a  good  saleswoman 
she  would  be  !  What  a  handsome  figure  she  would  make  in  a 
magnificent  store  on  the  boulevards  !  The  twofold  covetous- 
ness  turned  Remonencq's  head.  In  fancy  he  took  a  store 
that  he  knew  of  on  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine,  he  stocked 
it  with  Pons'  treasures,  and  then — after  dreaming  his  dream 
in  sheets  of  gold,  after  seeing  millions  in  the  blue  spiral 
wreaths  that  rose  from  his  pipe,  he  awoke  to  find  himself  face 
to  face  with  the  little  tailor.  Cibot  was  sweeping  the  yard, 
the  doorstep,  and  the  pavement  just  as  his  neighbor  was  taking 
down  the  shutters  and  displaying  his  wares  ;  for  since  Pons 
fell  ill,  La  Cibot's  work  had  fallen  to  her  husband. 

The  Auvergnat  began  to  look  upon  the  little,  swarthy, 
stunted,  copper-colored  tailor  as  the  one  obstacle  in  his  way, 
and  pondered  how  to  be  rid  of  him.  Meanwhile,  this  growing 
passion  made  La  Cibot  very  proud,  for  she  had  reached  an 
age  when  a  woman  begins  to  understand  that  she  may  grow 
old. 

So  early  one  morning,  she  meditatively  watched  Remonencq 
as  he  arranged  his  odds  and  ends  for  sale.  She  wondered  how 
far  his  love  could  go.     He  came  across  to  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  are  things  going  as  you  wish  ?  " 

"It  is  you  who  make  me  uneasy,"  said  La  Cibot.     "I 


COUSIN  PONS.  299 

shall   be  talked   about  ;   the  neighbors  will  see  you  making 
sheep's  eyes  at  me." 

She  left  the  doorway  and  dived  into  the  Auvergnat's  back 
store. 

''What  a  notion  !  "  said  Remonencq. 

"Come  here,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  said  La 
Cibot.  "Monsieur  Pons'  heirs  are  about  to  make  a  stir; 
they  are  capable  of  giving  us  a  lot  of  trouble.  God  knows 
what  might  come  of  it  if  they  send  the  lawyers  here  to  poke 
their  noses  into  the  affair  like  hunting-dogs.  I  cannot  get 
Monsieur  Schmucke  to  sell  a  few  pictures  unless  you  like  me 
well  enough  to  keep  the  secret — such  a  secret !  With  your 
head  on  the  block,  you  must  not  say  where  the  pictures  come 
from,  nor  who  it  was  that  sold  them.  When  Monsieur  Pons 
is  once  dead  and  buried,  you  understand,  nobody  will  know 
how  many  pictures  there  ought  to  be  ;  if  there  are  fifty-three 
pictures  instead  of  sixty-seven,  nobody  will  be  any  the  wiser. 
Beside,  if  Monsieur  Pons  sold  them  himself  while  he  was 
alive,  nobody  can  find  fault." 

"No,"  agreed  Remonencq,  "  it  is  all  one  to  me,  but  Mon- 
sieur Elie  Magus  will  want  receipts  in  due  form." 

"  And  you  shall  have  your  receipt  too,  bless  your  life  !  Do 
you  suppose  that  /  should  write  them?  No,  Monsieur 
Schmucke  will  do  that. 

"  But  tell  your  Jew  that  he  must  keep  the  secret  as  closely 
as  you  do,"  she  continued. 

"We  will  be  as  mute  as  fishes.  That  is  our  business.  I 
myself  can  read,  but  I  cannot  write,  and  that  is  why  I  want 
a  capable  wife  that  has  had  education  like  you.  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  but  earning  my  bread  all  my  days,  and 
now  I  wish  I  had  some  little  Remonencqs.  Do  leave  that 
Cibot  of  yours." 

"Why,  here  comes  your  Jew,"  said  the  portress;  "we  can 
arrange  the  whole  business." 

Elie  Magus  came  every  third  day  very  early  in  the  morning  to 


300  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

know  when  h€  could  buy  his  pictures.  "  Well,  my  dear  lady," 
said  he,  "how  are  we  getting  on?" 

"  Has  nobody  been  to  speak  to  you  about  Monsieur  Pon« 
and  his  gimcracks?  "  asked  La  Cibot. 

"I  received  a  letter  from  a  lawyer,"  said  Elie  Magus,  "a 
rascal  that  seems  to  me  to  be  trying  to  make  work  for  himself  \ 
I  don't  like  people  of  that  sort,  so  I  took  no  notice  of  his 
letter.  Three  days  afterward  he  came  to  see  me,  and  left  his 
card.  I  told  my  porter  that  I  am  never  at  home  when  he 
calls." 

"  You  are  a  love  of  a  Jew,"  said  La  Cibot.  Little  did  she 
know  Elie  Magus'  prudence.  "Well,  sonnies,  in  a  few  days' 
time  I  will  bring  Monsieur  Schmucke  to  the  point  of  selling 
you  seven  or  eight  pictures,  ten  at  most.  But  on  two  condi- 
tions. Absolute  secrecy  in  the  first  place.  Monsieur  Schmucke 
will  send  for  you,  sir,  is  not  that  so  ?  And  Monsieur  Remon- 
encq  suggested  that  you  might  be  a  purchaser,  eh?  And, 
come  what  may,  I  will  not  meddle  in  it  for  nothing.  You 
are  giving  forty-six  thousand  francs  for  four  pictures,  are  you 
not?" 

"  So  be  it,"  groaned  the  Jew. 

"Very  good.  This  is  the  second  condition.  You  will 
give  me  forty-three  thousand  francs,  and  pay  three  thousand 
only  to  Monsieur  Schmucke  ;  Remonencq  will  buy  four  for 
two  thousand  francs,  and  hand  over  the  surplus  to  me.  But, 
at  the  same  time,  you  see,  my  dear  Monsieur  Magus,  I  am 
going  to  help  you  and  Remonencq  to  a  splendid  bit  of  busi- 
ness— on  condition  that  the  profits  are  shared  among  the  three 
of  us.  I  will  introduce  you  to  that  lawyer,  as  he,  no  doubt, 
will  come  here.  You  shall  make  a  valuation  of  Monsieur 
Pons'  things  at  the  prices  which  you  can  give  for  them,  so 
that  Monsieur  Fraisier  may  know  how  much  the  property  is 
worth.     But — not  until  after  our  sale,  you  understand  !  " 

"I  understand,"  said  the  Jew,  "  but  it  takes  time  to  look  at 
the  things  and  value  them." 


COUSIN  PONS.  301 

"You  shall  have  half  a  day.  But,  there,  that  is  my  affair. 
Talk  it  over  betyi^een  yourselves,  my  boys,  and  for  that  matter 
the  business  will  be  settled  by  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I 
will  go  round  to  speak  to  this  Fraisier  ;  for  Dr.  Poulain  tells 
tells  him  everything  that  goes  on  in  the  house,  and  it  is  a 
great  bother  to  keep  that  scarecrow  quiet." 

La  Cibot  met  Fraisier  halfway  between  the  Rue  de  la  Perle 
and  the  Rue  de  Normandie ;  so  impatient  was  he  to  know  the 
"elements  of  the  case"  (to  use  his  own  expression),  that  he 
was  coming  to  see  her. 

**  I  say  !     I  was  going  to  you,"  said  she. 

Fraisier  grumbled  because  Elie  Magus  had  refused  to  see 
him.  But  La  Cibot  extinguished  the  spark  of  distrust  that 
gleamed  in  the  lawyer's  eyes  by  informing  him  that  Elie 
Magus  had  returned  from  a  journey,  and  that  she  would  ar- 
range for  an  interview  in  Pons'  rooms  and  for  the  valuation 
of  the  property ;  for  the  day  after  to-morrow  at  latest. 

"Deal  frankly  with  me,"  returned  Fraisier.  "It  is  more 
than  probable  that  I  shall  act  for  Monsieur  Pons'  next-of-kin. 
In  that  case,  I  shall  be  even  better  able  to  serve  you." 

The  words  were  spoken  so  drily  that  La  Cibot  quaked.  This 
starving  limb  of  the  law  was  sure  to  manoeuvre  on  his  side  as 
she  herself  was  doing.  She  resolved  forthwith  to  hurry  on  the 
sale  of  the  pictures. 

La  Cibot  was  right.  The  doctor  and  lawyer  had  clubbed 
together  to  buy  a  new  suit  of  clothes  in  which  Fraisier  could 
decently  present  himself  before  Mme.  la  Presidente  Camusot 
de  Marville.  Indeed,  if  the  clothes  had  been  ready,  the  in- 
terview would  have  taken  place  sooner,  for  the  fate  of  the 
couple  hung  upon  its  issues.  Fraisier  left  Mme.  Cibot  and 
went  to  try  on  his  new  clothes.  He  found  them  waiting  for 
him,  went  home,  adjusted  his  new  wig,  and  toward  ten  o'clock 
that  morning  set  out  in  a  carriage  from  a  livery  stable  for  the 
Rue  de  Hanovre,  hoping  for  an  audience.  In  his  white  tie, 
yellow  gloves,  and  new  wig,  redolent  of  Portugal  water,  he 


302  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

looked  something  like  a  poisonous  essence  kept  in  a  cut-glass 
bottle,  seeming  but  the  more  deadly  because  everything  about 
it  is  daintily  neat,  from  the  stopper  covered  with  white  kid 
to  the  label  and  the  thread.  His  peremptory  manner,  the 
eruption  on  his  blotched  countenance,  the  green  eyes,  and  a 
malignant  something  about  him — all  these  things  struck  the 
beholder  with  the  same  sense  of  surprise  as  storm-clouds  in  a 
blue  sky.  If  in  his  private  office,  as  he  showed  himself  to  La 
Cibot,  he  was  the  common  knife  that  a  murderer  catches  up 
for  his  crime — now,  at  the  presidente's  door,  he  was  the 
daintily  wrought  dagger  which  a  woman  sets  among  the  orna- 
ments of  her  whatnot. 

A  great  change  had  taken  place  in  the  Rue  de  Hanovre. 
The  Count  and  Countess  Popinotand  the  young  people  would 
not  allow  the  president  and  his  wife  to  leave  the  house  that 
they  had  settled  upon  their  daughter  to  pay  rent  elsewhere. 
M.  and  Mme.  la  Presidente,  therefore,  were  installed  on  the 
third  floor,  now  left  at  liberty,  for  the  elderly  lady  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  end  her  days  in  the  country. 

Mme.  Camusot  took  Madeleine  Vivet,  with  her  cook  and  her 
manservant,  to  the  third  floor,  and  would  have  been  as  much 
pinched  for  money  as  in  the  early  days,  if  the  house  had  not 
been  rent-free,  and  the  president's  salary  increased  to  ten 
thousand  francs.  This  aurea  ?nediocritas  was  but  little  satis- 
factory to  Mme.  de  Marville.  Even  now  she  wished  for  means 
more  in  accordance  with  her  ambitions ;  for  when  she  handed 
over  their  fortune  to  their  daughter,  she  spoiled  her  husband's 
prospects.  Now  Amelie  had  set  her  heart  upon  seeing  her 
husband  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  ;  she  was  not  one  of  those 
women  who  find  it  easy  to  give  up  their  way ;  and  she  by  no 
means  despaired  of  returning  her  husband  for  the  arrondisse- 
ment  in  which  Marville  is  situated.  So  for  the  past  two  months 
she  had  teased  her  father-in-law,  M.  le  Baron  Camusot  (for  the 
new  peer  of  France  had  been  advanced  to  that  rank),  and  done 
her  utmost  to  extort  an  advance  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs 


COUSIN  PONS.  303 

of  the  inheritance  which  one  day  would  be  tlieirs.  She 
wanted,  she  said,  to  buy  a  small  estate  worth  about  two  thou- 
sand francs  per  annum  set  like  a  wedge  within  the  Marville 
lands.  There  she  and  her  husband  would  be  near  their  chil- 
dren and  in  their  own  house,  while  the  addition  would  round  out 
the  Marville  property.  With  that  the  presidente  laid  stress  upon 
the  recent  sacrifices  which  she  and  her  husband  had  been  com- 
pelled to  make  in  order  to  marry  Cecile  to  Viscount  Popinot, 
and  asked  the  old  man  how  he  could  bar  his  eldest  son's  way 
to  the  highest  honors  of  the  magistracy,  when  such  honors 
were  only  to  be  had  by  those  who  made  themselves  a  strong 
position  in  parliament.  Her  husband  would  know  how  to 
take  up  such  a  position,  he  would  make  himself  feared  by 
those  in  office,  and  so  on  and  so  on.  "  They  do  nothing  for 
you  unless  you  tighten  a  halter  round  their  necks  to  loosen 
their  tongues,"  said  she.  "  They  are  ungrateful.  What  do 
they  not  owe  to  Caniusot !  Camusot  brought  the  House  of 
Orleans  to  the  throne  by  enforcing  the  ordinances  of  July." 

M.  Camusot  senior  answered  that  he  had  gone  out  of  his 
depth  in  railway  speculations.  He  quite  admitted  that  it  was 
necessary  to  come  to  the  rescue,  but  put  off  the  day  until  shares 
should  rise,  as  they  were  expected  to  do. 

This  half-promise,  extracted  some  few  days  before  Fraisier's 
visit,  had  plunged  the  presidente  into  depths  of  afHiction.  It 
was  doubtful  whether  the  ex-proprietor  of  Marville  was  eligible 
for  reelection  without  the  land  qualification. 

Fraisier  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  speech  of  Madeleine 
Vivet ;  such  viper  natures  own  their  kinship  at  once. 

"I  should  like  to  see  Madame  la  Presidente  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, mademoiselle,"  Fraisier  said  in  bland  accents;  "I 
have  come  on  a  matter  of  business  which  touches  her  fortune  ; 
it  is  a  question  of  a  legacy,  be  sure  you  mention  that.  I  have 
not  the  honor  of  being  known  to  Madame  la  Presidente,  so 
my  name  is  of  no  consequence.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of 
leaving  my  chambers,  but  I  know  the  respect  that  is  due  to  a 


304  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

president's  wife,  and  I  took  the  trouble  of  coming  myself  to 
save  all  possible  delay." 

The  matter  thus  broached,  when  repeated  and  amplified  by 
the  waiting-maid,  naturally  brought  a  favorable  answer.  It 
was  a  decisive  moment  for  the  double  ambition  hidden  in 
Fraisier's  mind.  Bold  as  a  petty  provincial  attorney,  sharp, 
rough-spoken,  and  curt  as  he  was,  he  felt  as  captains  feel  be- 
fore the  decisive  battle  of  a  campaign.  As  he  went  into  the 
little  drawing-room  where  Amelie  was  waiting  for  him,  he  felt 
a  slight  perspiration  breaking  out  upon  his  forehead  and  down 
his  back.  Every  sudorific  hitherto  employed  had  failed  to 
produce  this  result  upon  a  skin  which  horrible  diseases  had 
left  impervious.  "Even  if  I  fail  to  make  my  fortune,"  said 
he  to  himself,  "  I  shall  recover.  Poulain  said  that  if  I  could 
only  perspire  I  should  recover." 

The  presidente  came  forward  in  her  morning  gown. 

"Madame "  said  Fraisier,  stopping  short  to  bow  with 

the  humility  by  which  officials  recognize  the  superior  rank  of 
the  person  whom  they  address. 

"  Take  a  seat,  monsieur,"  said  the  presidente.  She  saw  at 
a  glance  that  this  was  a  man  of  law. 

"  Madame  la  Presidente,  if  I  take  the  liberty  of  calling 
your  attention  to  a  matter  which  concerns  Monsieur  le  Presi- 
dent, it  is  because  I  am  sure  that  Monsieur  de  Marville,  occu- 
pying, as  he  does,  a  high  position,  would  leave  matters  to 
take  their  natural  course,  and  so  lose  seven  or  eight  hundred 
thousand  francs,  a  sum  which  ladies  (who,  in  my  opinion, 
have  a  far  better  understanding  of  private  business  than  the 
best  of  magistrates) — a  sum  which  ladies,  I  repeat,  would  by 
no  means  despise " 

"You  spoke  of  a  legacy,"  interrupted  the  lady,  dazzled  by 
the  wealth  and  anxious  to  hide  her  surprise.  Amelie  de  Mar- 
ville, like  an  impatient  novel-reader,  wanted  the  end  of  the 
story. 

"Yes,  raadame,  a  legacy  that  you  are  like  to  lose;  yes, 


COUSIN  PONS.  305 

to  lose  altogether;  but  I  can,  that  is,  I  couid xtcowQx  it  for 
you,  if " 

**  Speak  out,  monsieur."  Mme.  de  Marville  spoke  frigidly, 
scanning  Fraisier  as  she  spoke  with  a  sagacious  eye. 

**  Madame,  your  eminent  capacity  is  known  to  me  ;  I  was 
once  at  Mantes.  Monsieur  Leboeuf,  president  of  the  Tribunal, 
is  acquainted  with  Monsieur  de  Marville,  and  can  answer  in- 
quiries about  me " 

The  presidente's  shrug  was  so  ruthlessly  significant  that 
Fraisier  was  compelled  to  make  short  work  of  his  parenthetic 
discourse. 

"So  distinguished  a  woman  will  at  once  understand  why  I 
speak  of  myself  in  the  first  place.  It  is  the  shortest  way  to 
the  property." 

To  this  acute  observation  the  lady  replied  by  a  gesture. 
Fraisier  took  the  sign  for  a  permission  to  continue. 

"  I  was  an  attorney,  madame,  at  Mantes.  My  connection 
was  all  the  fortune  that  I  was  likely  to  have.  I  took  over 
Monsieur  Levroux's  practice.     You  knew  him,  no  doubt  ?  " 

The  presidente  inclined  her  head. 

"With  borrowed  capital  and  some  ten  thousand  francs  of 
my  own,  I  went  to  Mantes.  I  had  been  with  Desroches,  one 
of  the  cleverest  attorneys  in  Paris ;  I  had  been  his  head-clerk 
for  six  years.  I  was  so  unlucky  as  to  make  an  enemy  of  the 
attorney  for  the  crown  at  Mantes,  Monsieur " 

"Olivier  Vinet." 

"Son  of  the  attorney-general,  yes,  madame.  He  was  pay- 
ing his  court  to  a  little  person " 

"Whom?" 

"  Madame  Vatinelle." 

"Oh  !  Madame  Vatinelle.  She  was  very  pretty  and  very 
— er — when  I  was  there " 

"  &  .e  was  not  unkind  to  me  :  inde  tree,"  Fraisier  continued. 
"  I  was  industrious ;  I  wanted   to  repay  my  friends  and   to 
marry;   I  wanted  work;  I  went  in  search  of  it;  and  before 
20 


306  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

long  I  had  more  on  my  hands  than  anybody  else.  Bah  !  I 
had  every  soul  in  Mantes  against  me — attorneys,  notaries,  and 
even  the  bailiffs.  They  tried  to  fasten  a  quarrel  on  me.  In 
our  ruthless  profession,  as  you  know,  madame,  if  you  wish  to 
ruin  a  man,  it  is  soon  done,  I  was  concerned  for  both  parties 
in  a  case,  and  they  found  it  out.  It  was  a  trifle  irregular ;  but 
it  is  sometimes  done  in  Paris,  attorneys  in  certain  cases  hand 
the  rhubarb  and  take  the  senna.  They  do  things  differently 
at  Mantes.  I  had  done  Monsieur  Bouyonnet  this  little  service 
before ;  but,  egged  on  by  his  colleagues  and  the  attorneys  for 
the  crown,  he  betrayed  me.  I  am  keeping  back  nothing,  you 
see.  There  was  a  great  hue  and  cry  about  it.  I  was  a  scoun- 
drel ;  they  made  me  out  blacker  than  Marat ;  forced  me  to 
sell  out ;  ruined  me.  And  I  am  in  Paris  now.  I  have  tried 
to  get  together  a  practice ;  but  my  health  is  so  bad  that  I 
have  only  two  quiet  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four. 

"At  this  moment  I  have  but  one  ambition,  and  a  very 
small  one.  Some  day,"  he  continued,  "you  will  be  the  wife 
of  the  keeper  of  the  seals,  or  of  the  home  secretary,  it  may 
be ;  but  I,  poor  and  sickly  as  I  am,  desire  nothing  but  a  post 
in  which  I  can  live  in  peace  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  a  place 
without  any  opening  in  which  to  vegetate.  I  should  like  to 
be  a  justice  of  the  peace  in  Paris.  It  would  be  a  mere  trifle 
to  you  and  Monsieur  le  President  to  gain  the  appointment  for 
me ;  for  the  present  keeper  of  the  seals  must  be  anxious  to 
keep  on  good  terms  with  you 

"And  that  is  not  all,  madame,"  added  Fraisier.  Seeing 
that  Mme.  de  Marville  was  about  to  speak,  he  cut  her  short 
with  a  gesture.  "I  have  a  friend,  the  doctor  in  attendance 
on  the  old  man  who  ought  to  leave  his  "property  to  Monsieur 
le  President.  (We  are  coming  to  the  point,  you  see.)  The 
doctor's  cooperation  is  indispensable,  and  the  doctor  is  pre- 
cisely in  my  position  :  he  has  abilities,  he  is  unlucky.  I 
learned  through  him  how  far  your  interests  were  imperiled; 
for,  even  as  I  speak,  all  may  be  over,  and  the  will  disinheriting 


COUSIN  PONS.  307 

Monsieur  le  President  may  have  been  made.  The  doctor 
wishes  to  be  head-surgeon  of  a  hospital  or  of  a  Government 

school.     He  must  have  a  position  in  Paris  equal  to  mine 

Pardon  me  if  I  have  enlarged  on  a  matter  so  delicate ;  but 
we  must  have  no  misunderstandings  in  this  business.  The 
doctor  is,  beside,  much  respected  and  learned ;  he  saved  the 
life  of  the  Comtesse  Popinot's  great-uncle,  Monsieur  Pille- 
rault. 

"Now,  if  you  are  so  good  as  to  promise  these  two  posts — 
the  appointment  of  justice  of  the  peace  and  the  sinecure  for 
my  friend — I  will  undertake  to  bring  you  the  property,  almost 
intact.  Almost  intact,  I  say,  for  the  cooperation  of  the  legatee 
and  of  several  other  persons  is  absolutely  indispensable,  and 
some  obligations  will  be  incurred.  You  will  not  redeem  your 
promises  until  I  have  fulfilled  mine." 

The  presidente  had  folded  her  arms,  and  for  the  last  minute 
or  two  sat  like  a  person  compelled  to  listen  to  a  sermon.  Now 
she  unfolded  her  arms,  and  looked  at  Fraisier  as  she  said  : 
*'  Monsieur,  all  that  you  say  concerning  your  interests  has  the 
merit  of  clearness;  but  my  own  interests  in  the  matter  are  by 
no  means  so  clear " 

"A  word  or  two  will  explain  everything,  madame.  Mon- 
sieur le  President  is  Monsieur  Pons'  first  cousin  once  removed, 
and  his  sole  heir.  Monsieur  Pons  is  very  ill ;  he  is  about  to 
make  his  will,  if  it  is  not  made  already,  in  favor  of  a  German, 
a  friend  of  his  named  Schmucke  ;  and  he  has  more  than  seven 
hundred  thousand  francs  to  leave.  I  hope  to  have  an  accurate 
valuation  made  in  two  or  three  days " 

"  If  this  is  so,"  said  the  presidente,  "  I  made  a  great  mis- 
take in  quarreling  with  him  and  throwing  the  blame "  she 

thought  aloud,  amazed  by  the  possibility  of  such  a  sum. 

"  No,  madame.  If  there  had  been  no  rupture,  he  would  be 
as  blithe  as  a  lark  at  this  moment,  and  might  outlive  you  and 
Monsieur  le  President  and  me.  The  ways  of  Providence  are 
mysterious,  let  us  not  seek  to  fathom  them,"  he  added,  to 


308  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

palliate  to  some  extent  the  hideous  idea,  "It  cannot  be 
helped.  We  men  of  business  look  at  the  practical  aspects  of 
things.  Now  you  see  clearly,  madame,  that  Monsieur  de 
Marville  in  his  public  position  would  do  nothing,  and  could 
do  nothing,  as  things  are.  He  has  broken  off  all  relations 
with  his  cousin.  You  see  nothing  now  of  Pons;  you  have 
forbidden  him  the  house  ;  you  had  excellent  reasons,  no  doubt, 
for  doing  as  you  did,  but  the  old  man  is  ill,  and  he  is  leaving 
his  property  to  the  only  friend  left  to  him.  A  president  of 
the  Court  of  Appeals  in  Paris  could  say  nothing  under  such 
circumstances  if  the  will  was  made  out  in  due  form.  But 
between  ourselves,  madame,  when  one  has  a  right  to  expect 
seven  or  eight  hundred  thousand  francs — or  a  million,  it  may 
be  (how  should  I  know  ?) — it  is  very  unpleasant  to  have  it  slip 
through  one's  fingers,  especially  if  one  happens  to  be  the  heir- 
at-law.  But,  on  the  otlier  hand,  to  prevent  this,  one  is  obliged 
to  stoop  to  dirty  work ;  work  so  difficult,  so  ticklish,  bringing 
you  cheek  by  jowl  with  such  low  people,  servants  and  subor- 
dinates ;  and  into  such  close  contact  with  them,  too,  that  no 
barrister,  no  attorney  in  Paris  could  take  up  such  a  case. 

"What  you  want  is  a  briefless  barrister  like  me,"  said  he, 
"a  man  who  should  have  real  and  solid  ability,  who  has 
learned  to  be  devoted,  and  yet,  being  in  a  precarious  position, 
is  brought  temporarily  to  a  level  with  such  people.  In  my 
arrondissement  I  undertake  business  for  small  tradespeople  and 
working  folk.  Yes,  madame,  you  see  the  straits  to  which  I 
have  been  brought  by  the  enmity  of  an  attorney  for  the  crown, 
now  a  deputy  public  prosecutor  in  Paris,  who  could  not  for- 
give me  my  superiority.  I  know  you,  madame,  I  know  that 
your  influence  means  a  solid  certainty;  and  in  such  a  service 
rendered  to  you,  I  saw  the  end  of  my  troubles  and  success  for 
my  friend  Dr.  Poulain." 

The  lady  sat  pensive  during  a  moment  of  unspeakable  tor- 
ture for  Fraisier.  Vinet,  an  orator  of  the  Centre,  attorney- 
general  (J>rocureur'general)  for  the  past  sixteen  years,  nomi- 


COUSIN  PONS.  309 

nated  half-a-score  of  times  for  the  chancellorship,  the  father, 
moreover,  of  the  attorney  for  the  crown  at  Mantes  who  had 
been  appointed  to  a  post  in  Paris  within  the  last  year — Vinet 
was  an  enemy  and  a  rival  for  the  malignant  presidente.  The 
haughty  attorney-general  did  not  hide  his  contempt  for  Presi- 
dent Camusot.  This  fact  Fraisier  did  not  know,  and  could 
not  know. 

"  Have  you  nothing  on  your  conscience  but  the  fact  that 
you  were  concerned  for  both  parties?"  asked  she,  looking 
steadfastly  at  Fraisier. 

"  Madame  la  Presidente  can  see  Monsieur  Leboeuf ;  he  was 
favorable  to  me." 

"Do  you  feel  sure  that  Monsieur  Leboeuf  will  give  Mon- 
sieur de  Marville  and  Monsieur  le  Comte  Popinot  a  good 
account  of  you?  " 

"  I  will  answer  for  it,  especially  now  that  Monsieur  Oliver 
Vinet  has  left  Mantes  ;  for  between  ourselves,  good  Monsieur 
Leboeuf  was  afraid  of  tliat  crabbed  little  official.  If  you  will 
permit  me,  Madame  la  Presidente,  I  will  go  to  Mantes  and 
see  Monsieur  Leboeuf.  No  time  will  be  lost,  for  I  cannot  be 
certain  of  the  precise  value  of  the  property  for  two  or  three 
days.  I  do  not  wish  that  you  should  know  all  the  ins  and 
outs  of  this  affair  ;  you  ought  not  to  know  them,  Madame  la 
Presidente,  but  is  not  the  reward  that  I  expect  for  my  com- 
plete devotion  a  pledge  of  my  success  ?  " 

"  Very  well.  If  Monsieur  Leboeuf  will  speak  in  your  favor, 
and  if  the  property  is  worth  as  much  as  you  think  (I  doubt  it 
myself),  you  shall  have  both  appointments,  if  you  succeed, 
mind  you " 

"  I  will  answer  for  it,  madame.  Only,  you  must  be  so 
good  as  to  have  your  notary  and  your  attorney  here  when  I 
shall  need  them  ;  you  must  give  me  a  power  of  attorney  to 
act  for  Monsieur  le  President,  and  tell  those  gentlemen  to 
follow  my  instructions,  and  to  do  nothing  on  their  own  re- 
sponsibility." 


310  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

"The  responsibility  rests  witii  you,"  the  presidente  an- 
swered solemnly,  "so  you  ought  to  have  full  powers.  But  is 
Monsieur  Pons  very  ill  ?  "   she  asked,  smiling. 

"Upon  my  word,  madame,  he  might  pull  through,  espe- 
cially with  so  conscientious  a  doctor  as  Poulain  in  attendance ; 
for  this  friend  of  mine,  madame,  is  simply  an  unconscious  spy 
directed  by  me  in  your  interests.  Left  to  himself,  he  would 
save  the  old  man's  life  ;  but  there  is  some  one  else  by  the 
sick-bed,  a  portress,  who  would  push  him  into  his  grave  for 
thirty  thousand  francs.  Not  that  she  would  kill  him  outright ; 
she  will  not  give  him  arsenic,  she  is  not  so  merciful ;  she  will 
do  worse,  she  will  kill  him  by  inches,  she  will  worry  him  to 
death  day  by  day.  If  the  poor  old  man  were  kept  quiet  and 
left  in  peace ;  if  he  were  taken  into  the  country  and  cared 
for  and  made  much  of  by  friends,  he  would  get  well  again  ; 
but  he  is  harassed  by  a  sort  of  Madame  Evrard.  When  the 
woman  was  young  she  was  one  of  thirty  Belles  EcailHres, 
famous  in  Paris  ;  she  is  a  rough,  greedy,  gossiping  woman  ; 
she  torments  him  to  make  a  will  and  to  leave  her  something 
handsome,  and  the  end  of  it  will  be  induration  of  the  liver ; 
calculi  are  possibly  forming  at  this  moment,  and  he  has  not 
strength  to  bear  an  operation.  The  doctor,  noble  soul,  is  in 
a  horrible  predicament.  He  really  ought  to  send  the  woman 
away ' ' 

"Why,  then,  this  vixen  is  a  monster  !  "  cried  the  lady  in 
thin  flute-like  tones. 

Fraisier  smiled  inwardly  at  the  likeness  between  himself 
and  the  terrible  presidente  ;  he  knew  all  about  those  suave 
modulations  of  a  naturally  sharp  voice.  Pie  thought  of  an- 
other president,  the  hero  of  an  anecdote  related  by  Louis 
XL,  stamped  by  that  monarch's  final  phrase.  Blessed  with  a 
wife  after  the  pattern  of  Socrates'  spouse,  and  ungifted  with 
the  sage's  philosophy,  he  mingled  salt  with  the  corn  in  the 
mangers  and  forbade  the  grooms  to  give  water  to  the  horses. 
As  his  wife  rode  out  along  the  Seine  toward  their  country- 


COUSIN  PONS.  311 

house,  the  animals  bolted  into  the  river  with  the  lady,  and 
the  magistrate  returned  thanks  to  Providence  for  ridding  him 
of  his  wife  ''in  so  natural  a  manner."  At  this  present  mo- 
ment Mme.  de  Marvi'le  thanked  heaven  for  placing  at  Pons' 
bedside  a  woman  so  likely  to  get  him  "  decently"  out  of  the 
way. 

Aloud  she  said,  "  I  would  not  take  a  million  at  the  price 
of  a  single  scruple.  Your  friend  ought  to  speak  to  Monsieur 
Pons  and  have  the  woman  sent  away." 

"  In  the  first  place,  madame,  Messrs.  Schmucke  and  Pons 
think  the  woman  an  angel ;  they  would  send  my  friend  away. 
And,  secondly,  the  doctor  lies  under  an  obligation  to  this 
horrid  oyster-woman ;  she  called  him  in  to  attend  Monsieur 
Pillerault.  When  he  tells  her  to  be  as  gentle  as  possible  with 
the  patient,  he  simply  shows  the  creature  how  to  make  matters 
worse." 

"  What  does  your  friend  think  of  7ny  cousin's  condition  ?  " 

This  man's  clear,  business-like  way  of  putting  the  facts  of 
the  case  frightened  Mme.  de  Marville  ;  she  felt  that  his  keen 
gaze  read  the  thoughts  of  a  heart  as  greedy  as  La  Cibot's 
own. 

"  In  six  weeks  the  property  will  change  hands." 

The  presidente  dropped  her  eyes. 

"■  Poor  man  !  "  she  sighed,  vainly  striving  after  a  dolorous 
expression. 

"  Have  you  any  message,  madame,  for  Monsieur  Leboeuf? 
I  am  taking  the  train  to  Mantes." 

"Yes.  Wait  a  moment,  and  I  will  write  asking  him  to 
(line  with  us  to-morrow.  I  want  to  see  him,  so  that  we  may 
act  in  concert  to  repair  the  injustice  to  which  you  have  fallen 
a  victim." 

The  presidente  left  the  room.  Fraisier  saw  himself  a  justice 
of  the  peace.  He  felt  transformed  at  the  thought ;  he  grew 
stouter ;  his  lungs  were  filled  with  the  breath  of  success,  the 
breeze  of  prosperity.    He  dipped  into  the  mysterious  reservoirs 


312  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

of  volition  for  fresh  and  strong  doses  of  the  divine  essence. 
To  reach  succecs,  he  felt,  as  Remonencq  had  felc,  that  he  was 
ready  for  anything,  for  crime  itself,  provided  that  no  proofs 
of  it  remained.  He  had  faced  the  presidente  boldly  ;  he  had 
transmuted  conjecture  into  reality;  he  had  made  assertions 
right  and  left,  all  Lo  the  end  that  she  might  authorize  him  to 
protect  her  interests  and  win  her  influence.  As  he  stood 
there,  he  represented  the  infinite  misery  of  two  lives,  and  the 
no  less  boundless  desires  of  two  men.  He  spurned  the  squalid 
horrors  of  the  Rue  de  la  Perle.  He  saw  the  glitter  of  a  thou- 
sand crowns  in  fees  from  La  Cibot,  and  five  thousand  francs 
from  the  presidente.  This  meant  an  abode  such  as  befitted 
his  future  prosp'^cts.     Finally,  he  was  repaying  Dr.  Poulain. 

There  are  hard,  ill-natured  beings,  goaded  by  distress  or 
disease  into  active  malignity,  that  yet  entertain  diametrically 
opposed  sentiments  with  a  like  degree  of  vehemence.  If  Rich- 
elieu was  a  good  hater,  he  was  no  less  a  good  friend.  Fraisier, 
in  his  gratitude,  would  have  let  himself  be  cut  in  two  for 
Poulain. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  these  visions  of  a  comfortable  and 
prosperous  life  that  he  did  not  see  the  presidente  come  in  with 
the  letter  in  her  hand,  and  she,  looking  at  him,  thought  him 
less  ugly  now  than  at  first.  He  was  about  to  be  useful  to  her, 
and  as  soon  as  a  tool  belongs  to  us  we  look  upon  it  with  other 
eyes. 

"Monsieur  Fraisier,"  said  she,  "you  have  convinced  me 
of  your  intelligence,  and  I  think  that  you  can  speak 
frankly." 

Fraisier  replied  by  an  eloquent  gesture. 

"Very  well,"  continued  the  lady,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  give 
a  candid  reply  to  this  question  :  Are  we,  either  of  us.  Mon- 
sieur de  Marville  or  I,  likely  to  be  compromised,  directly  or 
indirectly,  by  your  action  in  this  matter?" 

"  I  would  not  have  come  to  you,  madame  if  I  thought  that 
some  day  I  should  have  to  reproach   myself  for  bringing  so 


COUSIN  PONS.  313 

much  as  a  splash  of  mud  upon  you,  for  in  your  position  a 
speck  the  size  of  a  pin's  head  is  seen  by  all  the  world.  You 
forget,  madame,  tliat  I  must  satisfy  you  if  I  am  to  be  a  justice 
of  the  peace  in  Paris.  I  have  received  one  lesson  at  the  outset 
of  my  life ;  it  was  so  sharp  that  I  do  not  care  to  lay  myself  open 
to  a  second  thrashing.  To  sum  it  up  in  a  last  word,  madame, 
I  will  not  take  a  step  in  which  you  are  directly  involved  with- 
out previously  consulting  you " 

"  Very  good.  Here  is  the  letter.  And  now  I  shall  expect 
to  be  informed  of  the  exact  value  of  the  estate." 

"There  is  the  whole  matter,"  said  Fraisier  shrewdly,  mak- 
ing his  bow  to  the  presidente  with  as  much  graciousness  as 
his  countenance  could  exhibit. 

"What  a  providence!"  thought  Mme.  Camusot  de  Mar- 
ville.  "So  I  am  to  be  rich!  Camusot  will  be  sure  of  his 
election  if  we  let  loose  this  Fraisier  upon  the  Bolbec  constit- 
uency.    What  a  tool  !  " 

"What  a  providence  !  "  Fraisier  said  to  himself  as  he  de- 
scended the  staircase  ;  "  and  what  a  sharp  woman  Madame 
Camusot  is  !  I  should  want  a  woman  in  these  circumstances. 
Now  to  work  !  " 

And  he  departed  for  Mantes  to  gain  the  good  graces  of  a 
man  he  scarcely  knew ;  but  he  counted  upon  Mme.  Vatinelle, 
to  whom,  unfortunately,  he  owed  all  his  troubles — and  some 
troubles  are  of  a  kind  that  resemble  a  protested  bill  while  the 
defaulter  is  yet  solvent,  in  that  they  bear  interest. 

Three  days  afterward,  while  Schmucke  slept  (for  in  accord- 
ance with  the  compact  he  now  sat  up  at  night  with  the  patient), 
La  Cibot  had  a  "  tiff,"  as  she  was  pleased  to  call  it,  with  Pons. 
It  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  call  attention  to  one  particularly 
distressing  symptom  of  liver  complaint.  The  sufferer  is  al- 
ways more  or  less  inclined  to  impatience  and  fits  of  anger  ;  an 
outburst  of  this  kind  seems  to  give  relief  at  the  time,  much 
as  a  patient  while  the  fever  fit  is  upon  him  feels  that  he  has 
boundless  strength  ;  but  collapse  sets  in  so  soon  as  the  excite- 


314  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

ment  passes  off,  and  the  full  extent  of  mischief  sustained  by 
the  system  is  discernible.  This  is  especially  the  case  when 
the  disease  has  been  induced  by  some  great  shock ;  and  the 
prostration  is  so  much  the  more  dangerous  because  the  patient 
is  kept  upon  a  restricted  diet.  It  is  a  kind  of  fever  affecting 
neither  the  blood  nor  the  brain,  but  the  humoristic  mechanism, 
fretting  the  whole  system,  producing  melancholy,  in  which 
the  patient  hates  himself;  in  such  a  crisis  anything  may  cause 
dangerous  irritation. 

In  spite  of  all  that  the  doctor  could  say,  La  Cibot  had  no 
belief  in  this  wear  and  tear  of  the  nervous  system  by  the 
humoristic.  She  was  a  woman  of  the  people,  without  ex- 
perience or  education ;  Dr.  Poulain's  explanations  for  her 
were  simply  "  doctors'  notions."  Like  most  of  her  class,  she 
thought  that  sick  people  must  be  fed,  and  nothing  short  of 
Dr.  Poulain's  direct  order  prevented  her  from  administering 
ham,  a  nice  omelette,  or  vanilla  chocolate  upon  the  sly. 

"  Give  Monsieur  Pons  one  single  mouthful  of  any  solid  food 
whatsoever,  and  you  will  kill  him  as  surely  as  if  you  put  a 
bullet  through  him,"  he  said. 

The  infatuation  of  the  working-classes  on  this  point  is  very 
strong.  The  reason  of  their  reluctance  to  enter  a  hospital  is 
the  idea  that  they  will  be  starved  there.  The  mortality  caused 
by  the  food  smuggled  in  by  the  wives  of  patients  on  visiting- 
days  was  at  one  time  so  great  that  the  doctors  were  obliged 
to  institute  a  very  strict  search  for  contraband  provisions. 

If  La  Cibot  was  to  realize  her  profits  at  once,  a  momentary 
quarrel  must  be  worked  up  in  some  way.  She  began  by  telling 
Pons  about  her  visit  to  the  theatre,  not  omitting  her  passage 
of  arms  with  Mile.  HeloVse  the  dancer. 

"  But  why  did  you  go?"  the  invalid  asked  for  the  third 
time.  La  Cibot  once  launched  on  a  stream  of  words,  he  was 
powerless  to  stop  her. 

"  So,  then,  when  I  had  given  her  a  piece  of  my  mind. 
Mademoiselle  Heloise  saw  who  I  was  and  knuckled  under,  and 


COUSIN  PONS.  315 

we  were  the  best  of  friends.  And  now  do  you  ask  me  why  I 
went?"  she  added,  repeating  Pons'  question. 

There  are  certain  babblers,  babblers  of  genius  are  they, 
who  sweep  up  interruptions,  objections,  and  observations  in 
this  way  as  they  go  along,  by  way  of  provision  to  swell  the 
matter  of  their  conversation,  as  if  that  source  were  ever  in 
any  danger  of  running  dry. 

"Why  I  went?"  repeated  she.  "I  went  to  get  your 
Monsieur  Gaudissart  out  of  a  fix.  He  wants  some  music  for 
a  ballet,  and  you  are  hardly  fit  to  scribble  on  sheets  of  paper 
and  do  your  work,  dearie.  So  I  understood,  things  being 
so,  that  a  Monsieur  Garangeot  was  to  be  asked  to  set  the 
*  Mohicans  '  to  music " 

*' Garangeot  !  "  roared  Pons  in  fury.  ^'Garangeot!  a 
man  with  no  talent;  I  would  not  have  him  for  first  violin  ! 
He  is  very  clever,  he  is  very  good  at  musical  criticism,  but 
as  to  composing — I  doubt  it !  And  what  tlie  devil  put  the 
notion  of  going  to  the  theatre  into  your  head  ?  " 

"  How  confoundedly  contrairy  the  man  is  !  Look  here, 
dearie,  we  mustn't  boil  over  like  milk  on  the  fire  !  How  are 
you  to  write  music  in  the  state  that  you  are  in  ?  Why,  you 
can't  have  looked  at  yourself  in  the  glass^  Will  you  have  the 
glass  and  see  ?  You  are  nothing  but  skin  and  bone — you  are 
as  weak  as  a  sparrow,  and  do  you  think  that  you  are  fit  to 
make  your  notes  ?  why,  you  would  not  so  much  as  make  out 
mine.  And  that  reminds  me  that  I  ought  to  go  up  to  the 
fourth-floor  lodger's  that  owes  us  seventeen  francs  \  it  is  worth 
going  to  fetch  is  seventeen  francs,  for  when  the  chemist  has 
been  paid  we  shall  not  have  twenty  left.  So  I  had  to  tell  le 
Gaudissart  (I  like  that  name),  a  good  sort  he  seems  to  be — a 
regular  Roger  Bontempts  that  would  just  suit  me.  He  will 
never  have  liver  complaint !  Well,  so  I  had  to  tell  him  how 
you  were.  Lord  !  you  are  not  well,  and  he  has  put  some  one 
else  in  your  place  for  a  bit " 

"Some  one  else  in  my  place  !  "  cried  Pons  in  a  terrible 


316  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

voice,  as  he  sat  upright  in  bed.  Sick  people,  generally  speak- 
ing, and  those  more  particularly  who  lie  within  the  sweep  of 
the  scythe  of  Death,  cling  to  their  places  with  the  same  pas- 
sionate energy  that  the  beginner  displays  to  gain  a  start  in 
life.  To  hear  that  some  one  had  taken  his  place  was  like  a 
foretaste  of  death  to  the  dying  man. 

"  Why,  the  doctor  told  me  that  I  was  going  on  as  well 
as  possible,"  continued  he;  "he  said  that  I  should  soon  be 
about  again  as  usual.  You  have  killed  me,  ruined  me,  mur- 
dered me  !  " 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  cried  La  Cibot,  "there  you  go  !  I  am 
killing  you,  am  I?  Mercy  on  us  !  these  are  the  pretty  things 
that  you  are  always  telling  Monsieur  Schmucke  when  my 
back  is  turned.  I  hear  all  that  you  say,  that  I  do  !  You  are 
a  monster  of  ingratitude." 

"  But  you  do  not  know  that  if  I  am  only  away  for  another 
fortnight  they  will  tell  me  that  I  have  had  my  day,  that  I  am 
old-fashioned,  out  of  date,  Empire,  rococo,  when  I  go  back. 
Garangeot  will  have  made  friends  all  over  the  theatre,  high 
and  low.  He  will  lower  the  pitch  to  suit  some  actress  that 
cannot  sinsr.  he  will  lick  Monsieur  Gaudissart's  boots!" 
cried  the  sick  man,  who  clung  to  life.  "  He  has  friends  that 
will  praise  him  in  all  the  newspapers ;  and  when  things  are 
like  that  in  such  a  shop,  Madame  Cibot,  tliey  can  find  holes 
in  anybody's  coat.     What  fiend  drove  you  to  do  it?" 

"Why!  plague  take  it.  Monsieur  Schmucke  talked  it  over 
with  me  for  a  week.  What  would  you  have?  You  see 
nothing  but  yourself!  You  are  so  selfish  that  other  people 
may  die  if  you  can  only  get  better.  Why,  poor  Monsieur 
Schmucke  has  been  tired  out  this  month  past !  he  is  tied  by 
the  leg,  he  can  go  nowhere,  he  cannot  give  lessons  nor  take 
his  place  at  the  theatre.  Do  you  really  see  nothing?  He 
sits  up  with  you  at  night,  and  I  take  the  nursing  in  the  day. 
If  I  were  to  sit  up  at  night  with  you,  as  I  tried  to  do  at  first 
when  I  thought  you  were  so  poor,  I  should  have  to  sleep  all 


COUSIN  PONS.  317 

day.  And  who  would  see  to  the  liouse  and  look  out  for 
squalls  !  Illness  is  illness,  it  cannot  be  helped,  and  here  are 
you " 


"  This  was  not  Schmucke's  idea,  it  is  quite  impossible " 

"That  means  that  it  was  /  who  took  it  into  my  head  to  do 
it,  does  it  ?  Do  you  think  that  we  are  made  of  iron  ?  Why,  if 
Monsieur  Schmucke  had  given  seven  or  eight  lessons  every  day 
and  conducted  the  orchestra  every  evening  at  the  theatre 
from  six  o'clock  till  half-past  eleven  at  night,  he  would 
have  died  in  ten  days'  time.  Poor  man,  he  would  give  his 
life  for  you,  and  do  you  want  to  be  the  death  of  him?  V>y 
the  authors  of  my  days,  I  have  never  seen  a  sick  man  to  match 
you  !  Where  are  your  senses  ?  have  you  put  them  in  pawn  ? 
We  are  all  slaving  our  lives  out  for  you  ;  we  do  all  for  the  best, 
and  you  are  not  satisfied  !  Do  you  want  to  drive  us  raging 
mad?     I  myself,  to  begin  with,  am  tired  out  as  it  is " 

La  Cibot  rattled  on  at  her  ease ;  Pons  was  too  angry  to  say 
a  word.  He  writhed  on  his  bed,  painfully  uttering  inarticu- 
late sounds;  the  blow  was  killing  him.  And  at  this  point,  as 
usual,  the  scolding  turned  suddenly  to  tenderness.  The  nurse 
dashed  at  her  patient,  grasped  him  by  the  head,  made  him  lie 
down  by  main  force,  and  dragged  the  blankets  over  him. 

"  How  any  one  can  get  into  such  a  state  !  "  exclaimed  she. 
"After  all,  it  is  your  illness,  dearie.  That  is  what  good  Mon- 
sieur Poulain  says.  See  now,  keep  quiet  and  be  good,  my 
dear  little  sonny.  Everybody  that  comes  near  you  worships 
you,  and  the  doctor  himself  comes  to  see  you  twice  a  day. 
What  would  he  say  if  he  found  you  in  such  a  way  ?  You  put 
me  out  of  all  patience ;  you  ought  not  to  behave  like  this.  If 
you  have  Ma'am  Cibot  to  nurse  you,  you  should  treat  her 
better.  You  shout  and  you  talk  ! — you  ought  not  to  do  it, 
you  know  that.  Talking  irritates  you.  And  why  do  you  fly 
into  a  passion  ?  The  wrong  is  all  on  your  side ;  you  are 
always  bothering  me.  Look  here,  let  us  have  it  out  !  If 
Monsieur  Schmucke  and  I,  who  love  you  like  our  life,  thought 


318  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

that  we  were  doing  right — well,  my  cherub,  it  was  right,  you 
may  be  sure." 

"  Schmucke  never  could  have  told  you  to  go  to  the  theatre 
without  speaking  to  me  about  it " 

"And  must  I  wake  him,  poor  dear,  when  he  is  sleeping  like 
one  of  the  blest,  and  call  him  in  as  witness  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Pons.  "If  my  kind  and  loving  Schmucke 
made  the  resolution,  perhaps  I  am  worse  than  I  thought." 
His  eyes  wandered  round  the  room,  dwelling  on  the  beautiful 
things  in  it  with  a  melancholy  look  painful  to  see. 

"  So  I  must  say  good-by  to  my  dear  pictures,  to  all  the 
things  that  have  come  to  be  like  so  many  friends  to  me — and 
to  my  divine  friend  Schmucke  ?     Oh  !  can  it  be  true?  " 

La  Cibot,  acting  her  heartless  comedy,  held  her  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes ;  and  at  that  mute  response  the  sufferer  fell 
to  dark  musings — so  sorely  stricken  was  he  by  the  double  stab 
dealt  to  health  and  his  interests  by  the  loss  of  his  post  and  the 
near  prospect  of  death  that  he  had  no  strength  left  for  anger. 
He  lay,  ghastly  and  wan,  like  a  consumptive  patient  after  a 
wrestling  bout  with  the  Destroyer. 

"  In  Monsieur  Schmucke's  interests,  you  see,  you  would  do 
well  to  send  for  Monsieur  Trognon  ;  he  is  the  notary  of  the 
quarter  and  a  very  good  man,"  said  La  Cibot,  seeing  that  her 
victim  was  completely  exhausted. 

"You  are  always  talking  about  this  Trognon " 

"  Oh  !  he  or  another,  it  is  all  one  to  me,  for  anything  you 
will  leave  me." 

She  tossed  her  head  to  signify  that  she  despised  riches. 
There  was  silence  in  the  room. 

A  moment  later  Schmucke  came  in.  He  had  slept  for  six 
hours,  hunger  awakened  him,  and  now  he  stood  at  Pons'  bed- 
side watching  his  friend  without  saying  a  word,  for  Mme. 
Cibot  had  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips. 

"Hush!"  she  whispered.  Then  she  rose  and  went  u]i  to 
add  under  her  breath  :  "  He  is  going  off  to  sleep  at  last,  thank 


COUSIN  PONS.  319 

heaven  !  He  is  as  cross  as  a  red  donkey  !  What  can  you 
expect,  he  is  struggling  with  his  illness " 

"No,  on  the  contrary,  I  am  very  patient,"  said  the  victim 
in  a  weary  voice  that  told  of  a  dreadful  exhaustion;  "but, 
oh  !  Schmucke,  my  dear  friend,  she  has  been  to  the  theatre  to 
turn  me  out  of  my  place." 

There  was  a  pause.  Pons  was  too  weak  to  say  more.  La 
Cibot  look  the  opportunity  and  tapped  her  head  significantly. 
"  Do  not  contradict  him,"  she  said  to  Schmucke;  "  it  would 
kill  him." 

Pons  gazed  into  Schmucke's  honest  face.  "  And  she  says 
that  you  sent  her "  he  continued. 

"Yes,"  Schmucke  affirmed  heroically.  "It  had  to  pe. 
Hush  ! — let  us  safe  your  life.  It  is  absurd  to  vork  and  train 
your  sdrength  gif  you  haf  a  dreasure.  Get  better  ;  we  vill  sell 
some  pric-a-prac  und  end  our  tays  kvietly  in  a  corner  som- 
veres,  mit  kind  Montame  Zipod." 

"She  has  perverted  you,"  moaned  Pons. 

Mme.  Cibot  had  taken  up  her  station  behind  the  bed  to 
make  signals  unobserved.  Pons  thouglit  that  she  had  left  the 
room.     "  She  is  murdering  me,"  he  added. 

"What  is  that?  I  am  murdering  you,  am  I?"  cried  La 
Cibot,  suddenly  appearing,  hand  on  hips  and  eyes  aflame. 
"  I  am  as  faithful  as  a  dog,  and  this  is  all  I  get  !  God  Al- 
mighty ! " 

She  burst  into  tears  and  dropped  down  into  the  great  chair, 
a  tragical  movement  which  wrought  a  most  disastrous  revul- 
sion in  Pons. 

"  Very  good,"  she  said,  rising  to  her  feet.  The  woman's 
malignant  eyes  looked  poison  and  bullets  at  the  two  friends. 
"Very  good.  Nothing  that  I  can  do  is  right  here,  and  I  am 
tired  of  slaving  my  life  out.     You  shall  take  a  nurse." 

Pons  and  Schmucke  exchanged  glances  in  dismay. 

"  Oh  !  you  may  look  at  each  other  like  actors.  I  mean  it. 
I  shall  ask  Dr.  Poulain  to  find  a  nurse  for  you.     And  now  we 


320  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

will  settle  accounts.  You  shall  pay  me  back  the  money  that  I 
have  spent  on  you,  and  that  I  would  never  have  asked  you 
for,  I  that  have  gone  to  Monsieur  PUlerault  to  borrow  another 
five  hundred  francs  of  him " 

"It  ees  his  illness  !  "  cried  Schmucke — he  sprang  to  Mme. 
Cibot  and  put  an  arm  round  her  waist — "  haf  batience." 

"As  for  you,  you  are  an  angel,  I  could  kiss  the  ground  you 
tread  upon,"  said  she.  "  But  Monsieur  Pons  never  liked  me, 
he  always  hated  me.  Beside,  he  thinks  perhaps  that  I  want 
to  be  mentioned  in  his  will " 

*'  Hush  !  you  vill  kill  him  !  "  cried  Schmucke. 

•'Good-by,  sir,"  said  La  Cibot,  with  a  withering  look  at 
Pons.  "You  may  keep  well  for  all  the  harm  I  wish  you. 
When  you  can  speak  to  me  pleasantly,  when  you  can  believe 
that  what  I  do  is  done  for  the  best,  I  will  come  back  again. 
Till  then  I  shall  stay  in  my  own  room.  You  were  like  my 
own  child  to  me ;  did  anybody  ever  see  a  child  revolt  against 
its  mother?  No,  no,  Monsieur  Schmucke,  I  do  not  want  to 
hear  more.  I  will  bring  you  your  dinner  and  wait  upon  you, 
but  you  must  take  a  nurse.     Ask  Monsieur  Poulain  about  it." 

And  out  she  went,  slamming  the  door  after  her  so  violently 
that  the  precious  fragile  objects  in  the  room  trembled.  To 
Pons  in  his  torture,  the  rattle  of  china  was  like  the  final  blow 
dealt  by  the  executioner  to  a  victim  broken  on  the  wheel. 

An  hour  later  La  Cibot  called  to  Schmucke  through  the 
door,  telling  him  that  his  dinner  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
dining-room.  She  would  not  cross  the  threshold.  Poor 
Schmucke  went  out  to  her  with  a  haggard,  tear-stained  face. 

"  Mein  boor  Bons  is  vandering,"  said  he;  "he  says  dat 
you  are  ein  padvoman.  It  ees  his  illness,"  he  added  hastily, 
to  soften  La  Cibot  and  excuse  his  friend. 

"  Oh,  I  have  had  enough  of  his  illness  !  Look  here,  he  is 
neither  father,  nor  husband,  nor  brother,  nor  child  of  mine. 
He  has  taken  a  dislike  to  me  ;  well  and  good,  that  is  enough  ! 
As  for  you,  you  sec,  I  would  follow  yoti  to  the  end  of  the 


COUSIN  PONS.  321 

world ;  but  when  a  woman  gives  her  life,  her  heart,  and  all 
her  savings,  and  neglects  her  husband  (for  here  has  Cibot 
fallen  ill),  and  then  hears  that  she  is  a  bad  woman — it  is  coin- 
ing it  rather  too  strong,  it  is." 

"  Too  sthrong?  " 

"Too  strong,  yes.  Never  mind  idle  words.  Let  us  come 
to  the  facts.  As  to  that,  you  owe  me  for  three  months  at  a 
hundred  and  ninety  francs — that  is  five  hundred  and  se  /enty 
francs ;  then  there  is  the  rent  that  I  have  paid  twice  (here  are 
the  receipts),  six  hundred  more,  including  rates  and  the  sou 
in  the  franc  for  the  porter — something  under  twelve  hun- 
dred francs  altogether,  and  with  the  two  tho—and  francs 
beside — without  interest,  mind  you — the  total  amounts  to 
three  thousand  one  hundred  and  ninety-two  francs.  And 
remember  that  you  will  want  at  least  two  thousand  francs 
before  long  for  the  doctor,  and  the  nurse,  and  the  medicine, 
and  the  nurse's  board.  That  was  why  I  borrowed  a  thousand 
francs  of  Monsieur  Pillerault,"  and  with  that  she  held  up 
Gaudissart's  bill. 

It  may  readily  be  conceived  that  Schmucke  listened  to  this 
reckoning  with  amazement,  for  he  knew  about  as  much  of 
business  as  a  cat  knows  of  music. 

''Montame  Zipod,"  he  expostulated,  "  Bons  haf  lost  his 
head.  Bardon  him,  und  nurse  him  as  pefore,  und  pe  our 
profidence  ;  I  peg  it  of  you  on  mine  knees,"  and  he  knelt 
before  La  Cibot  and  kissed  the  tormentor's  hands. 

La  Cibot  raised  Schmucke  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 
"Listen,  my  lamb,"  said  she,  "here  is  Cibot  ill  in  bed;  I 
have  just  sent  for  Dr.  Poulain.  So  I  ought  to  set  my  affairs 
in  order.  And  what  is  more,  Cibot  saw  me  crying,  and  flew 
into  such  a  passion  that  he  will  not  have  me  set  foot  in  here 
again.  It  is  he  who  wants  the  money;  it  is  his,  you  see.  We 
women  can  do  nothing  when  it  comes  to  that.  But  if  you  let 
him  have  his  money  back  again — the  three  thousand  two 
hundred  francs — he  will  be  quiet  perhaps.  Poor  man,  it  is 
21 


322  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

his  all,  earned  by  die  sweat  of  his  brow,  the  savings  of  twenty- 
six  years  of  life  together.  He  must  have  his  money  to-mor- 
row ;  there  is  no  getting  round  him.  You  do  not  know  Cibot ; 
when  he  is  angry  he  would  kill  a  man.  Well,  I  might  perhaps 
get  leave  of  him  to  look  after  you  both  as  before.  Be  easy. 
I  will  just  let  him  say  anything  that  comes  into  his  head.  I 
will  bear  it  all  for  love  of  you,  an  angel  as  you  are." 

''No,  I  am  ein  boor  man,  dot  lof  his  friend  and  vould  gif 
his  life  to  save  him " 

"  But  the  money?  "  broke  in  La  Cibot,  ''  My  good  Monsieur 
Schmucke,  let  us  suppose  that  you  pay  me  nothing ;  you  will 
want  three  thousand  francs,  and  where  are  they  to  come  from  ? 
Upon  my  word,  do  you  know  what  I  should  do  in  your  place  ? 
I  should  not  think  twice,  I  should  just  sell  seven  or  eight  good- 
for-nothing  pictures  and  put  up  some  of  those  instead  that  are 
standing  in  your  closet  with  their  faces  to  the  wall  for  want 
of  room.  One  picture  or  another,  what  difference  does  it 
make?" 

"Und  vy?" 

"  He  is  so  cunning.  It  is  his  illness,  for  he  is  a  lamb  when 
he  is  well.  He  is  capable  of  getting  up  and  prying  about ; 
and  if  by  any  chance  he  went  into  the  salon,  he  is  so  weak 
that  he  could  not  go  beyond  the  door;  he  would  see  that  they 
were  all  still  there." 

''Drue!  " 

"And  when  he  is  quite  well,  we  will  tell  him  about  the 
sale.  And  if  you  wish  to  confess,  throw  it  all  upon  me,  say 
that  you  were  obliged  to  pay  me.  Come  !  I  have  a  broad 
back " 

"I  cannot  tispose  of  dings  dot  are  not  mine,"  the  good 
German  answered  simply. 

"  Very  well.  I  will  summons  you,  yes,  you  and  your  Mon- 
sieur Pons." 

"It  vould  kill  him " 

"Take   yoqr   choice!      Dear   me,    sell    the   pictures   and 


COUSIN  PONS.  323 

tell  him  about  it  afterward you  can  show  him  the  sum- 
mons  " 

"  Ver'  goot.  Summons  us.  Dot  shall  pe  mine  egscuse.  I 
shall  show  him  der  chudgment." 

Mrae.  Cibot  went  down  to  the  court,  and  that  very  day  at 
seven  o'clock  she  called  to  Schmucke.  Schmucke  found  him- 
self confronted  with  M.  Tabareau  the  bailiff,  who  called  upon 
him  to  pay.  Schmucke  made  answer,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot,  and  was  forthwith  summoned,  together  with  Pons,  to 
appear  in  the  county  court  to  hear  judgment  against  him. 
The  sight  of  the  bailiff  and  a  bit  of  stamped  paper  covered 
with  scrawls  produced  such  an  effect  upon  Schmucke  that  he 
held  out  no  longer. 

'•'  Sell  die  bictures,"  he  said,  with  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Next  morning,  at  six  o'clock,  Elie  Magus  and  Remonencq 
took  down  the  paintings  of  their  choice.  Two  receipts  for 
two  thousand  five  hundred  francs  were  made  out  in  correct 
form  : 

"I,  the  undersigned,  representing  M.  Pons,  acknowledge 
the  receipt  of  two  thousand  five  hundred  francs  from  M.  Elie 
Magus  for  the  four  pictures  sold  to  him,  the  said  sum  being 
appropriated  to  the  use  of  M.  Pons.  The  first  picture,  attri- 
buted to  Diirer,  is  a  portrait  of  a  woman;  the  second,  like- 
wise a  portrait,  is  of  the  Italian  School ;  the  third,  a  Dutch 
landscape  by  Breughel ;  and  the  fourth,  a  Holy  Family,  by 
an  unknown  master  of  the  Florentine  School." 

Remonencq's  receipt  was  worded  in  precisely  the  same 
way ;  a  Greuze,  a  Claude  Lorraine,  a  Rubens,  and  a  Van 
Dyck  being  disguised  as  pictures  of  the  French  and  Flemish 
schools. 

"  Der  monny  makes  me  beleei'dot  the  chimcracks  haf  some 
value,"  said  Schmucke  when  the  five  thousand  francs  were 
paid  over. 


324  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"They  are  certainly  worth  something,"  said  Remonencq. 
"I  would  willingly  give  a  hundred  thousand  francs  for  the 
lot,"  he  added. 

Remonencq,  asked  to  do  a  trifling  service,  hung  eight 
pictures  of  the  proper  size  in  the  same  frames,  taking  them 
from  among  the  less  valuable  pictures  in  Schmucke's  bed- 
room. 

No  sooner  was  Elie  Magus  in  possession  of  the  four  great 
pictures  than  he  went,  taking  La  Cibot  with  him,  under 
pretense  of  settling  accounts.  But  he  pleaded  poverty,  he 
found  fault  with  the  pictures,  they  needed  rebacking,  he 
offered  La  Cibot  thirty  thousand  francs  by  way  of  commis- 
sion, and  finally  dazzled  her  with  the  sheets  of  paper  on 
which  the  Bank  of  France  engraves  the  words  "  One  thou- 
sand francs"  in  capital  letters.  Magus  thereupon  condemned 
Remonencq  to  pay  the  like  sum  to  La  Cibot,  by  lending  him 
the  money  on  the  security  of  his  four  pictures,  which  he  took 
with  him  as  a  guarantee.  So  glorious  were  they  that  Magus 
could  not  bring  himself  to  part  with  them,  and  next  day  he 
bought  them  of  Remonencq  for  six  thousand  francs  over  and 
above  the  original  price,  and  an  invoice  was  duly  made  out 
for  the  four.  Mme.  Cibot,  the  richer  by  sixty-eight  thousand 
francs,  once  more  swore  her  two  accomplices  to  absolute 
secrecy.  Then  she  asked  the  Jew's  advice.  She  wanted  to 
invest  the  money  in  such  a  way  that  no  one  should  know 
of  it. 

"Buy  shares  in  the  Orleans  Railway,"  said  he;  "  they  are 
thirty  francs  below  par,  you  will  double  your  capital  in  three 
years.  They  will  give  you  scraps  of  paper,  which  you  can 
keep  safe  in  a  portfolio." 

"Stay  here,  Monsieur  Magus.  I  will  go  and  fetch  the 
man  of  business  who  acts  for  Monsieur  Pons'  family.  He 
wants  to  know  how  much  you  will  give  for  the  whole  bag  of 
tricks  upstairs.     I  will  go  for  him  now." 

"  If  only  she  were  a  widow  !  "  said  Remonencq  when  she 


cousnv  rOAS.  325 

was  gone.  "  She  would  just  suit  me  ;  she  will  have  plenty  of 
money  now " 

"  Especially  if  she  puts  her  money  into  the  Orleans  Rail- 
way; she  will  double  her  capital  in  two  years'  time.  I  have 
put  all  my  poor  little  savings  into  it,"  added  the  Jew,  "  for  my 
daughter's  portion.  Come,  let  us  take  a  turn  on  the  boulevard 
until  this  lawyer  arrives." 

"Cibot  is  very  bad  as  it  is,"  continued  Remonencq  ;  ''if 
it  should  please  God  to  take  him  to  Himself,  I  should  have 
a  famous  wife  to  keep  a  store  ;  I  could  set  up  on  a  large 
scale ' ' 

"Good-day,  Monsieur  Fraisier,"  La  Cibot  began  in  an  in- 
gratiating tone  as  she  entered  her  legal  adviser's  office.  "Why, 
what  is  this  that  your  porter  has  been  telling  me  ?  are  you 
going  to  move?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Madame  Cibot.  I  am  taking  the  second 
floor  above  Dr.  Poulain,  and  trying  to  borrow  two  or  three 
thousand  francs  so  as  to  furnish  the  place  properly  ;  it  is  very 
nice,  upon  my  word,  the  landlord  has  just  papered  and  painted 
it ;  I  am  acting,  as  I  told  you,  in  President  de  Marville's  in- 
terests and  in  yours.  I  am  not  an  attorney  now ;  I  mean  to 
have  my  name  entered  on  the  roll  of  barristers,  and  I  must  be 
well  lodged.  A  barrister  in  Paris  cannot  have  his  name  on 
the  rolls  unless  he  has  decent  furniture  and  books  and  the  like. 
I  am  a  doctor  of  law,  I  have  kept  my  terms,  and  have  powerful 
interest  already.     Well,  how  are  we  getting  on?" 

"Perhaps  you  would  accept  my  savings,"  said  La  Cibot. 
"  I  have  put  them  in  the  savings  bank.  I  have  not  much,  only 
three  thousand  francs,  the  fruits  of  twenty-five  years  of  stinting 
and  scraping.  You  might  give  me  a  bill  of  exchange,  as  Re- 
monencq says  ;  for  I  am  ignorant  myself,  I  only  know  what 
they  tell  me." 

"No.  It  is  against  the  rules  of  the  guild  for  a  barrister 
(avocat)  to  put  his  name  to  a  bill.      I  will  give    you  a  re- 


326  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

ceipt,  bearing  interest  at  five  per  cent,  per  annum,  on  the  un- 
derstanding that  if  I  make  an  income  of  twelve  hundred  francs 
for  you  out  of  old  Pons'  estate  you  will  cancel  it." 

La  Cibot,  caught  in  the  trap,  uttered  not  a  word. 

"Silence  gives  consent,"  Fraisier  continued.  "Let  me 
have  it  to-morrow  morning." 

'•  Oh,  I  am  quite  willing  to  pay  fees  in  advance,"  said  La 
Cibot ;  "  it  is  one  way  of  making  sure  of  my  money." 

Fraisier  nodded.  "  How  are  we  getting  on  ?  "  he  repeated. 
"I  saw  Poulain  yesterday;  you  are  hurrying  your  invalid 
along,  it  seems.  One  more  scene  such  as  yesterday's,  and 
gall-stones  will  form.  Be  gentle  with  him,  my  dear  Madame 
Cibot,  do  not  lay  up  remorse  for  yourself.  Life  is  not  too 
long." 

"  Just  let  me  alone  with  your  remorse  !  Are  you  going  to 
talk  about  the  guillotine  again  ?  Monsieur  Pons  is  a  contrairy 
old  thing.  You  don't  know  him.  It  is  him  that  bothers  me. 
There  is  not  a  more  cross-grained  man  alive ;  his  relations  are 
in  the  right  of  it,  he  is  sly,  revengeful,  and  contrairy.  Old 
Magus  has  come,  as  I  told  you,  and  is  waiting  to  see  you." 

"Right !  I  v/ill  be  there  as  soon  as  you.  Your  income  de- 
pends upon  the  price  the  collection  will  fetch.  If  it  brings  in 
eight  hundred  thousand  francs,  you  shall  have  fifteen  hundred 
francs  a  year.     It  is  a  fortune." 

"Very  well.     I  will  tell  them  to  value  the  things  on  their 


consciences." 


An  hour  later  Pons  was  fast  asleep.  The  doctor  had  or- 
dered a  soothing  draught,  which  Schmucke  administered,  all 
unconscious  that  La  Cibot  had  doubled  the  dose.  Fraisier, 
Remonencq,  and  Magus,  three  gallows-birds,  were  examining 
the  seventeen  hundred  different  objects  which  formed  the  old 
musician's  collection,  one  by  one. 

Schmucke  had  gone  to  bed.  The  three  kites,  drawn  by 
the  scent  of  a  corpse,  were  masters  of  the  field. 


COUSIN  PONS.  327 

"■  Make  no  noise,"  said  La  Cibot  whenever  Magus  went 
into  ecstasies  or  explained  the  value  of  some  work  of  art  to 
Remonencq.  The  dying  man  slept  on  in  the  neighboring 
room,  while  greed  in  four  different  forms  appraised  the  treas- 
ures that  he  must  leave  behind,  and  waited  impatiently  for  him 
to  die — a  sight  to  wring  the  heart. 

Three  hours  went  by  before  they  had  finished  the  salon. 

''On  an  average,"  said  the  grimy  old  Jew,  "everything 
here  is  worth  a  thousand  francs." 

"  Seventeen  hundred  thousand  francs  !  "  exclaimed  Fraisier 
in  bewilderment. 

"  Not  to  me,"  Magus  answered  promptly,  and  his  eyes 
grew  dull.  '*  I  would  not  give  more  than  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  myself  for  the  collection.  You  cannot  tell  how  long 
you  may  keep  a  thing  on  hand.  There  are  masterpieces 
that  wait  ten  years  for  a  buyer,  and  meanwhile  the  purchase- 
money  is  doubled  by  compound  interest.     Still,  I  should  pay 

cash." 

"  There  is  stained  glass  in  the  other  room,  as  well  as  enamels 
and  miniatures  and  gold  and  silver  snuff-boxes,"  put  in 
Remonencq. 

"  Can  they  be  seen  ?  "   inquired  Fraisier. 

"  I'll  see  if  he  is  sound  asleep,"  replied  La  Cibot.  She 
made  a  sign,  and  the  three  birds  of  prey  came  in. 

"There  are  masterpieces  yonder  !  "  said  Magus,  indicating 
the  salon,  every  bristle  of  his  white  beard  twitching  as  he 
spoke.  "  But  the  riches  are  here  !  And  what  riches  !  Kings 
have  nothing  more  glorious  in  royal  treasuries." 

Remonencq's  eyes  lighted  up  till  they  glowed  like  car- 
buncles at  the  sight  of  the  gold  snuff-boxes.  Fraisier,  cool 
and  calm  as  a  serpent,  or  some  snake-creature  with  the  power 
of  rising  erect,  stood  with  his  viper's  head  stretched  out,  m 
such  an  attitude  as  a  painter  would  choose  for  Mephistopheles. 
The  three  covetous  beings,  thirsting  for  gold  as  devils  thirst 
for  the  dew  of  heaven,  looked  simultaneously,  as  it  chanced, 


328  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

at  the  owner  of  all  this  wealth.  Some  nightmare  troubled 
Pons ;  he  stirred,  and  suddenly,  under  the  influence  of  those 
diabolical  glances,  he  opened  his  eyes  with  a  shrill  cry. 

''Thieves! There  they  are! Help!     Murder! 

Help!" 

The  nightmare  was  evidently  still  upon  him,  for  he  sat  up 
in  bed,  staring  before  him  with  blank,  wide-open  eyes,  and 
had  not  power  to  move. 

Elie  Magus  and  Remonencq  made  for  the  door,  but  a  word 
glued  them  to  the  spot. 

^'Magus  here  ! I  am  betrayed  !  " 

Instinctively  the  sick  man  had  known  that  his  beloved  pic- 
tures were  in  danger,  a  thought  that  touched  him  at  least  as 
closely  as  any  dread  for  himself,  and  he  awoke.  Fraisier 
meanwhile  did  not  stir. 

"Madame  Cibot  !  who  is  that  gentleman?"  cried  Pons, 
shivering  at  the  sight. 

"Goodness  me  !  how  could  I  put  him  out  of  the  door?" 
she  inquired,  with  a  wink  and  gesture  for  Fraisier's  benefit. 
"This  gentleman  came  just  a  minute  ago,  from  your  family." 

Fraisier  could  not  conceal  his  admiration  for  La  Cibot. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  have  come  on  behalf  of  Madame 
la  Presidente  de  Marville,  her  husband,  and  her  daughter  to 
express  their  regret.  They  learned  quite  by  accident  that  you 
are  ill,  and  they  would  like  to  nurse  you  themselves.  They 
want  you  to  go  to  Marville  and  get  well  there.  Madame  la 
Vicomtesse  Popinot,  the  little  Cecile  that  you  love  so  much, 
will  be  your  nurse.  She  took  your  part  with  her  mother. 
She  convinced  Madame  de  Marville  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake." 

"So  my  next-of-kin  have  sent  you  to  me,  have  they?" 
Pons  exclaimed  indignantly,  "and  sent  the  besi:  judge  and 
expert  in  all  Paris  with  you  to  show  you  the  w^y?  Oh!  a 
nice  commission  !  "  he  cried,  bursting  into  wild  laughter. 
"You  have  come  to  value  my  pictures  and  curiosities,  my 


COUSIN  PONS.  329 

snuff-boxes  and  miniatures !  Make  your  valuation.  You 
have  a  man  there  who  understands  everything,  and  more — he 
can  buy  everything,  for  he  is  a  millionaire  ten  times  over. 
My  dear  relatives  will  not  have  long  to  wait,"  he  added  with 
bitter  irony,  "they  have  choked  the  last  breath  out  of  me. 
Ah  !  Madame  Cibot,  you  said  you  were  a  mother  to  me,  and 
you  bring  dealers  into  the  house,  and  my  competitor  and  the 
Camusots,  while  I  am  asleep  !     Get  out,  all  of  you  ! " 

The  unhappy  man  was  beside  himself  with  anger  and  fear; 
he  rose  from  the  bed  and  stood  upright,  a  gaunt,  wasted 
figure. 

"Take  my  arm,  sir,"  said  La  Cibot,  rushing  to  the  rescue, 
lest  Pons  should  fall.  "Pray  calm  yourself,  the  gentlemen 
are  gone." 

"  I  want  to  see  the  salon "  said  the  death-stricken  man. 

La  Cibot  made  a  sign  to  the  three  ravens  to  take  flight.  Then 
she  caught  up  Pons  as  if  he  had  been  a  feather,  and  put  liim 
in  bed  again,  in  spite  of  his  cries.  When  she  saw  that  he  was 
quite  helpless  and  exhausted,  she  went  to  shut  the  door  on  the 
staircase.  The  three  who  had  done  Pons  to  death  were  still 
on  the  landing  ;  La  Cibot  told  them  to  wait.  She  heard 
Fraisier  say  to  Magus — 

"Let  me  have  it  in  writing,  and  sign  it,  both  of  you. 
Undertake  to  pay  nine  hundred  thousand  francs  in  cash  for 
Monsieur  Pons'  collection,  and  we  will  see  about  putting  you 
in  the  way  of  making  a  handsome  profit." 

With  that  he  said  something  to  La  Cibot  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  the  others  could  not  catch  it,  and  went  down  after  the 
two  dealers  to  the  porter's  room. 

"Have  they  gone,  Madame  Cibot  ?  "  asked  the  unhappy 
Pons,  when  she  came  back  again. 

"  Gone  ? who  ?  "  asked  she. 

"Those  men." 

"What  men?  There,  now!  you  have  seen  men,"  said 
she.     "  You  have  just  had  a  raving  fit ;  if  it  hadn't  been  for 


S30  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

me  you  would  have  gone  out  of  the  window,  and  now  you  are 
still  talking  of  men  in  the  room.  Is  it  always  a-going  to  be  like 
this?" 

"  What !  was  there  not  a  gentleman  here  just  now,  saying 
that  my  relatives  had  sent  him  ?  " 

"Will  you  still  stand  me  out?"  said  she.  "Upon  ray 
word,  do  you  know  where  you  ought  to  be  sent  ?  To  the 
asylum  at  Charenton.     You  see  men " 

"  Elie  Magus,  Remonencq,  and " 

"  Oh  !  as  for  Remonencq,  you  may  have  seen  him,  for  he 
came  up  to  tell  me  that  my  poor  Cibot  is  so  bad  that  I  must 
clear  out  of  this  and  come  down.  My  Cibot  comes  first,  you 
see.  When  my  husband  is  ill,  I  can  think  of  nobody  else. 
Try  to  keep  quiet  and  sleep  for  a  couple  of  hours;  I  have  sent 
for  Dr.  Poulain,  and  I  will  come  up  with  him.  Take  a  drink 
and  be  good " 

"  Then  was  there  no  one  in  the  room  just  now,  when  I 
waked? " 

"No  one,"  said  she.  "You  must  have  seen  Monsieur 
Remonencq  in  one  of  your  looking-glasses." 

"You  are  right,  Madame  Cibot,"  said  Pons,  meek  as  a 
lamb. 

"Well,  now  you  are  sensible  again.  Good-by,  my  cherub ; 
keep  quiet,  I  shall  be  back  again  in  a  minute." 

When  Pons  heard  the  outer  door  close  upon  her,  he  sum- 
moned up  all  his  remaining  strength  to  rise. 

"They  are  cheating  me,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "they 
are  robbing  me  !  Schmucke  is  a  child  that  would  let  them 
tie  him  up  in  a  sack." 

The  terrible  scene  had  seemed  so  real,  "it  could  not  be  a 
dream,  he  thought ;  a  desire  to  throw  light  upon  the  puzzle 
excited  him ;  he  managed  to  reach  the  door,  opened  it  after 
many  efforts,  and  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his  salon.  There 
they  were — his  dear  pictures,  his  statues,  his  Florentine 
bronzes,  his  porcelain  ;  the  sight  of  them  revived  him.     The 


COUSIN  PONS.  331 

old  collector  walked  in  his  dressing-gown  along  the  narrow 
spaces  between  the  credence-tables  and  the  sideboards  that 
lined  the  wall;  his  feet  bare,  his  head  on  fire.  His  first 
glance  of  ownership  told  him  that  everything  was  there ;  he 
turned  to  go  back  to  bed  again,  when  he  noticed  that  a 
Greuze  portrait  looked  out  of  the  frame  that  had  held  Sebas- 
tian del  Piombo's  Templar.  Suspicion  flashed  across  his 
brain,  making  his  dark  thoughts  apparent  to  him,  as  a  flash 
of  lightning  marks  the  outlines  of  the  cloud-bars  on  a  stormy 
sky.  He  looked  round  for  the  eight  capital  pictures  of  the 
collection  ;  each  one  of  them  was  replaced  by  another.  A 
dark  film  suddenly  overspread  his  eyes  ;  his  strength  failed 
him;  he  fell  fainting  upon  the  polished  floor. 

So  heavy  was  the  swoon  that  for  two  hours  he  lay  as  he  fell, 
till  Schmucke  awoke  and  went  to  see  his  friend,  and  found 
him  laying   unconscious  in   the  salon.     With  endless   pains 
Schmucke  raised  the  half-dead  body  and  laid  it  on  the  bed  ; 
but  when   he  came  to  question   the  death-stricken  man,  and 
saw  the  look  in  the  dull  eyes  and  heard  the  vague,  inarticulate 
words,  the  good  German,  so  far  from  losing  his  head,  rose  to 
the  very  heroism  of  friendship.     Man  and  child  as  he  was, 
with  the  pressure  of  despair  came  the  inspiration  of  a  mother's 
tenderness,  a  woman's  love.     He  warmed  towels  (he  found 
towels !),  he  wrapped  them  about  Pons'  hands,  he  laid  them 
over  the  pit  of  the  stomach  ;  he  took  the  cold,  moist  fore- 
head in  his  hands,  he  summoned   back  life  with  a  might  of 
will  worthy  of  Apollonius  of  Tyana;  laying  kisses   on   his 
friend's  eyelids  like  some  Mary  bending  over  the  dead  Christ, 
in  dipieta  carved  in  bas-relief  by  some  great  Italian  sculptor. 
The  divine  eff'ort,  the  outpouring  of  one  life  into  another, 
the  work  of  mother  and  of  lover,  was  crowned  with  success. 
In  half  an  hour  the  warmth  revived  Pons  ;  he  became  himself 
again,  the  hues  of  life  returned  to  his  eyes,  suspended  facul- 
ties gradually  resumed  their  play  under  the  influence  of  arti- 
ficial heat.     Schmucke  gave  him  balm-water  with  a  little  wine 


332  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

in  it;  the  spirit  of  life  spread  through  the  bod\' ;  intelligence 
lighted  up  the  forehead  so  short  a  while  ago  insensible  as  a 
stone ;  and  Pons  knew  that  he  had  been  brought  back  to  life, 
by  what  sacred  devotion,  what  might  of  friendship ! 

"But  for  you,  I  should  die,"  he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
felt  the  good  German's  tears  falling  on  his  face.  Schmucke 
was  laughing  and  crying  at  once. 

Poor  Schmucke  !  he  had  waited  for  those  words  with  a  frenzy 
of  hope  as  costly  as  the  frenzy  of  despair ;  and  now  his 
strength  utterly  failed  him,  he  collapsed  like  a  rent  balloon. 
It  was  his  turn  to  fall ;  he  sank  into  the  easy-chair,  clasped 
his  hands,  and  thanked  God  in  fervent  prayer.  For  him  a 
miracle  had  just  been  wrought.  He  put  no  belief  in  the 
efficacy  of  the  prayer  of  his  deeds  ;  the  miracle  had  been 
wrought  by  God  in  direct  answer  to  his  cry.  And  yet  that 
miracle  was  a  natural  effect,  such  as  medical  science  often 
records. 

A  sick  man,  surrounded  by  those  who  love  him,  nursed  by 
those  who  wish  earnestly  that  he  should  live,  will  recover 
(other  things  being  equal),  when  another  patient  tended  by 
hirelings  will  die.  Doctors  decline  to  see  unconscious  mag- 
netism in  this  phenomenon  ;  for  them  it  is  the  result  of  intel- 
ligent nursing,  of  exact  obedience  to  their  orders  ;  but  many 
a  mother  knows  the  virtue  of  such  ardent  projection  of  strong, 
unceasing  prayer. 

"  My  good  Schmucke " 

"  Say  nodings ;  I  shall  hear  you  mit  mein  heart rest, 

rest !  "  said  Schmucke,  smiling  at  him. 

"Poor   friend,   noble   creature,    child    of    God   living   in 

God  ! The  one   being  that  has   loved   me "     The 

words  came  out  with  pauses  between  them  ;  there  was  a  new 
note,  a  something  never  heard  before,  in  Pons'  voice.  All 
the  soul,  so  soon  to  take  flight,  found  utterance  in  the  words 
that  filled  Schmucke  with  happiness  almost  like  a  lover's 
rapture. 


COUSIN  PONS.  333 

"Yes,  yes.  I  shall  be  shtrong  as  a  lion.  I  shall  vork  for 
two  !  " 

"Listen,  my  good,  my  faithful,  adorable  friend.  Let  me 
speak,  I  have  not  much  time  left.  I  am  a  dead  man.  I 
cannot  recover  from  these  repeated  shocks." 

Schmucke  was  crying  like  a  child, 

"Just  listen,"  continued  Pons,  "and  cry  afterward.  As  a 
Christian,  you  must  submit.  I  have  been  robbed.  It  is  La 
Cibot's  doing.  I  ought  to  open  your  eyes  before  I  go ;  you 
know  nothing  of  life.  Somebody  has  taken  away  eight  of  the 
pictures,  and  they  were  worth  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"  Vorgif  me — I  sold  dem." 

"K?«sold  them?" 

"Yes,  I,"  said  poor  Schmucke.  "  Dey  summoned  us  to 
der  court " 

^'Sumfnoned ?     Who  summoned  us?" 

"  Wait,"  said  Schmucke.  He  went  for  the  bit  of  stamped 
paper  left  by  the  bailiff,  and  gave  it  to  Pons.  Pons  read  the 
scrawl  through  with  close  attention,  then  he  let  the  paper  drop 
and  lay  quite  silent  for  awhile.  A  close  observer  of  the  work 
of  men's  hands,  unheedful  so  far  of  the  workings  of  the  brain, 
Pons  finally  counted  out  the  threads  of  the  plot  woven  about 
him  by  La  Cibot.  The  artist's  fire,  the  intellect  that  won  the 
Roman  scholarship — all  his  youth — came  back  to  him  for  a 
little. 

"My  good  Schmucke,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you  must  do  as  I 
tell  you,  and  obey  like  a  soldier.  Listen  !  go  downstairs  into 
the  lodge  and  tell  that  abominable  woman  that  I  should  like 
to  see  the  person  sent  to  me  by  my  cousin  the  president ;  and 
that  unless  he  comes,  I  shall  leave  my  collection  to  the  Musee. 
Say  that  a  will  is  in  question." 

Schmucke  went  on  his  errand  ;  but  at  the  first  word,  La 
Cibot  answered  by  a  smile. 

"  My  good  Monsieur  Schmucke,  our  dear  invalid  has  had  a 
delirious  fit;  he  thought  that  there  were  men  in  the  room. 


334  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

On  my  word  as  an  honest  woman,  no  one  has  come  from  the 
family." 

Schmucke  went  back  with  this  answer,  which  he  repeated 

word  for  word. 

"She  is  cleverer,  more  astute  and  cunning  and  wily,  than 
I  thouf^ht,"  said  Pons  with  a  smile.  "She  lies  even  in  her 
room.  Imagine  it  !  This  morning  she  brought  a  Jew  here, 
Elie  Magus  by  name,  and  Remonencq,  and  a  third  whom  I 
do  not  know,  more  terrific  than  the  other  two  put  together. 
She  meant  to  make  a  valuation  while  I  was  asleep  ;  I  happened 
to  wake,  and  saw  them  all  three,  estimating  the  worth  of  my 
snuff-boxes.  Tiie  stranger  said,  indeed,  that  the  Camusots 
had  sent  him  here ;  I  spoke  to  him.  That  shameless  woman 
stood  me  out  that  I  was  dreaming  !  My  good  Schmucke,  it 
was  not  a  dream.  I  heard  the  man  perfectly  plain  ;  he  spoke 
to  me.  The  two  dealers  took  fright  and  made  for  the  door. 
I  thought  that  La  Cibot  would  contradict  herself— the  experi- 
ment failed.  I  will  lay  another  snare,  and  trap  the  wretched 
woman.  Poor  Schmucke,  you  think  that  La  Cibot  is  an 
angel ;  and  for  this  month  past  she  has  been  killing  me  by 
inches  to  gain  her  covetous  ends.  I  would  not  believe  that  a 
woman  who  served  us  faithfully  for  years  could  be  so  wicked. 
That  doubt  has  been  my  ruin.  How  much  did  the  eight 
pictures  fetch?  " 

"  Vife  tausend  vrancs.' 

"  Good  heavens  !  they  were  worth  twenty  times  as  much  !  " 
cried  Pons;  "the  gems  of  the  collection  !  I  have  not  time 
now  to  institute  proceedings ;  and  if  I  did,  you  would  figure 
in  court  as  the  dupe  of  those  rascals.  A  lawsuit  would  be  the 
death  of  you.  You  do  not  know  what  justice  means — a  court 
of  justice  is  a  sink  of  iniquity.  At  the  sight  of  such  horrors, 
a  soul  like  yours  would  give  way.  And,  beside,  you  will  have 
enough.  The  pictures  cost  me  forty  thousand  francs.  I  have 
had  them  for  thirty-six  years.  Oh,  we  have  been  robbed  with 
surprising  dexterity.     I  am  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  I  care 


COUSIN  PONS.  335 

for  nothing  now  but  thee — for  thee,  the  best  soul  under  the 
sun. 

"I  will  not  have  you  plundered;  all  that  I  have  is  yours. 
So  you  must  trust  nobody,  Schmucke,  you  that  have  never 
suspected  any  one  in  your  life.  I  know  God  watches  over 
you,  but  He  may  forget  for  one  moment,  and  you  will  be 
seized  like  a  vessel  among  pirates.  La  Cibot  is  a  monster ! 
She  is  killing  me ;  and  you  think  her  an  angel !  You  shall 
see  what  she  is.  Go  and  ask  her  to  give  you  the  name  of  a 
notary,  and  I  will  show  you  her  with  her  hand  in  the  bag." 

Schmucke  listened  as  if  Pons  proclaimed  an  apocalypse. 
Could  so  depraved  a  creature  as  La  Cibot  exist  ?  If  Pons  was 
right,  it  seemed  to  imply  that  there  was  no  God  in  the  world. 
He  went  down  again  to  Mme.  Cibot. 

"  Mein  boor  vriend  Bons  feel  so  ill,"  he  said,  "  dat  he  vish 
to  make  his  vill.     Go  und  pring  ein  nodary." 

This  was  said  in  the  hearing  of  several  persons,  for  Cibot's 
life  was  despaired  of.  Remonencq  and  his  sister,  two  women 
from  neighboring  porters'  lodges,  two  or  three  servants,  and 
the  lodger  from  the  second  floor  on  the  side  next  the  street 
were  all  standing  outside  in  the  gateway. 

"  Oh  !  you  can  just  fetch  a  notary  yourself,  and  have  your 
will  made  as  you  please,"  cried  La  Cibot,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "My  poor  Cibot  is  dying,  and  it  is  no  time  to  leave 
him.  I  would  give  all  the  Ponses  in  the  world  to  save  Cibot, 
that  has  never  given  me  an  ounce  of  unhappiness  in  these 
thirty  years  since  we  were  married." 

And  in  she  went,  leaving  Schmucke  in  confusion. 

"Is  Monsieur  Pons  really  seriously  ill,  sir?"  asked  the 
second-floor  lodger,  one  Jolivard,  a  clerk  in  the  registrar's 
office  at  the  Palais  de  Justice. 

"He  nearly  died  chust  now,"  said  Schmucke,  with  deep 
sorrow  in  his  voice. 

"  Monsieur  Trognon  lives  near  by  in  the  Rue  Saint-Louis," 
said  Monsieur  Jolivard,  "he  is  the  notary  of  the  quarter.'' 


336  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  go  for  him?  "  asked  Remonencq. 

'*  I  should  pe  fery  glad,"  said  Schmucke  ;  "  for  gif  Mon- 
tame  Zipod  cannot  pe  mit  mein  vriend,  I  shall  not  vish  to  leaf 
him  in  der  shtate  he  is  in " 

"Madame  Cibot  told  us  that  he  was  going  out  of  his  mind," 
resumed  Jolivard. 

"  Bons  !  out  off  his  mind  !  "  cried  Schmucke,  terror-stricken 
by  the  idea.  "  Nefer  vas  he  so  clear  in  der  head — dat  is  chust 
der  reason  vy  I  am  anxious  for  him." 

The  little  group  of  persons  listened  to  the  conversation 
with  a  very  natural  curiosity,  which  stamped  the  scene  upon 
their  memories.  Schmucke  did  not  know  Fraisier,  and  could 
not  note  his  satanic  countenance  and  glittering  eyes.  But 
two  words  whispered  by  Fraisier  in  La  Cibot' s  ear  had 
prompted  a  daring  piece  of  acting,  somewhat  beyond  La 
Cibot's  range,  it  may  be,  though  she  played  her  part  through- 
out in  a  masterly  style.  To  make  others  believe  that  the 
dying  man  was  out  of  his  mind — it  was  the  very  corner-stone 
of  the  edifice  reared  by  the  petty  lawyer.  The  morning's  in- 
cident had  done  Fraisier  good  service ;  but  for  him,  La  Cibot 
in  her  trouble  might  have  fallen  into  the  snare  innocently 
spread  by  Schmucke,  when  he  asked  her  to  send  back  the 
person  sent  by  the  family. 

Remonencq  saw  Dr.  Poulain  coming  toward  them,  and 
asked  no  better  than  to  vanish.  The  fact  was  that  for  the 
last  ten  days  the  Auvergnat  had  been  playing  Providence  in  a 
manner  singularly  displeasing  to  Justice,  which  claims  the 
monopoly  of  that  part.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  rid 
himself  at  all  costs  of  the  one  obstacle  in  his  way  to  happiness, 
and  happiness  for  him  meant  capital  trebled  and  marriage  with 
the  irresistibly  charming  portress.  He  had  watched  the  little 
tailor  drinking  his  herb-tea,  and  a  thought  struck  him.  He 
would  convert  the  ailment  into  mortal  sickness ;  his  stock  of 
old  metals  supplied  him  with  the  means. 

One  morning  as  he  leaned  against  the  door-post,  smoking 


COUSIN  PONS.  337 

his  pipe  and  dreaming  of  that  fine  store  on  tlie  Boulevard  de 
la  Madeleine  where  Mme.  Cibot,  gorgeously  arrayed,  should 
some  day  sit  enthroned,  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  copper  disc,  about 
the  size  of  a  five-franc  piece,  covered  thickly  with  verdigris. 
The  economical  idea  of  using  Cibot's  medicine  to  clean  the 
disc  immediately  occurred  to  him.  He  fastened  the  thing  to 
a  bit  of  twine,  and  came  over  every  morning  to  inquire  for 
tidings  of  his  friend  the  tailor,  timing  his  visit  during  La 
Cibot's  visit  to  her  gentlemen  upstairs.  He  dropped  the  disc 
into  the  tumbler,  allowed  it  to  steep  there  while  he  talked, 
and  drew  it  out  again  by  the  string  when  he  went  away. 

The  trace  of  tarnished  copper,  commonly  called  verdigris, 
poisoned  the  wholesome  draught ;  a  minute  dose  administered 
by  stealth  did  incalculable  mischief.  Behold  the  results  of 
this  criminal  homoeopathy  !  On  the  third  day  poor  Cibot's 
hair  came  out,  his  teeth  were  loosened  in  their  sockets,  his 
whole  system  was  deranged  by  a  scarcely  perceptible  trace  of 
poison.  Dr.  Poulain  racked  his  brains.  He  was  enough  of  a 
man  of  science  to  see  that  some  destructive  agent  was  at  work. 
He  privately  carried  off  the  decoction,  analyzed  it  himself, 
but  found  nothing.  It  so  chanced  that  Remonencq  had 
taken  fright  and  omitted  to  dip  the  disc  in  the  tumbler  that 
day. 

Then  Dr.  Poulain  fell  back  on  himself  and  science  and  got 
out  of  the  difficulty  with  a  theory.  A  sedentary  life  in  a 
damp  room  ;  a  cramped  position  before  the  barred  window — 
these  conditions  had  vitiated  the  blood  in  the  absence  of 
proper  exercise,  especially  as  the  patient  continually  breathed 
an  atmosphere  saturated  with  the  fetid  exhalations  of  the  gutter. 
The  Rue  de  Normandie  is  one  of  the  old-fashioned  streets  that 
slope  toward  the  middle;  the  municipal  authorities  of  Paris 
as  yet  have  laid  on  no  water-supply  to  flush  the  central  kennel 
which  drains  the  houses  on  either  side,  and  as  a  result  a  stream 
of  filthy  ooze  meanders  among  the  cobble-stones,  filters  into 
the  soil,  and  produces  the  mud  peculiar  to  the  city.  La  Cibot 
22 


338  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

came  and  went ;  but  her  husband,  a  hard-working  man,  sat 
day  in  day  out  like  a  fakir  on  the  table  in  the  window,  till 
his  knee-joints  were  stiffened,  the  blood  stagnated  in  his  body, 
and  his  legs  grew  so  thin  and  crooked  that  he  almost  lost  the 
use  of  them.  The  deep  copper  tint  of  the  man's  complexion 
naturally  suggested  that  he  had  been  out  of  health  for  a  very 
long  time.  The  wife's  good  health  and  the  husband's  illness 
seemed  to  the  doctor  to  be  satisfactorily  accounted  for  by  this 
theory. 

"Then  what  is  the  matter  with  my  poor  Cibot  ?  "  asked 
the  portress. 

"  My  dear  Madame  Cibot,  he  is  dying  of  the  porter's 
disease,"  said  the  doctor,  "  Incurable  vitiation  of  the  blood 
is  evident  from  the  general  ansemic  condition." 

No  one  had  anything  to  gain  by  a  crime  so  objectless.  Dr. 
Poulain's  first  suspicions  were  effaced  by  this  thought.  Who 
could  have  any  possible  interest  in  Cibot's  death?  His  wife? 
the  doctor  saw  her  taste  the  herb-tea  as  she  sweetened  it. 
Crimes  which  escape  social  vengeance  are  many  enough,  and 
as  a  rule  they  are  of  this  order — to  wit,  murders  committed 
without  any  startling  sign  of  violence,  without  bloodshed, 
bruises,  marks  of  strangling,  without  any  bungling  of  the 
business,  in  short  ;  if  there  seems  to  be  no  motive  for  the 
crime,  it  most  likely  goes  unpunished,  especially  if  the  death 
occurs  among  the  poorer  classes.  Murder  is  almost  alwa3^s 
announced  by  its  advanced  guards,  by  hatred  or  greed  well 
known  to  those  under  whose  eyes  the  whole  matter  has  passed. 
But  in  the  case  of  the  Cibots  no  one  save  the  doctor  had  any 
interest  in  discovering  the  actual  cause  of  death.  The  little 
copper-faced  tailor's  wife  adored  her  husband ;  he  had  no 
money  and  no  enemies ;  La  Cibot's  fortune  and  the  marine- 
store-dealer's  motives  were  alike  hidden  in  the  shade.  Pou- 
lain  knew  the  portress  and  her  way  of  thinking  perfectly  well ; 
he  thought  her  capable  of  tormenting  Pons,  but  he  saw  that 
she  had  neither  motive  enough  nor  wit  enough  for  murder ; 


COUSIN  PONS.  339 

and  beside — every  time  the  doctor  came  and  she  gave  her 
husband  a  draught,  she  took  a  spoonful  herself.  Poulain  him- 
self, the  only  person  who  might  have  thrown  light  on  the 
matter,  inclined  to  believe  that  this  was  one  of  the  unaccount- 
able freaks  of  disease,  one  of  the  astonishing  exceptions  which 
make  medicine  so  perilous  a  profession.  And  in  truth,  the 
little  tailor's  unwholesome  life  and  insanitary  surroundings 
had  unfortunately  brought  him  to  such  a  pass  that  the  trace 
of  copper-poisoning  was  like  the  last  straw.  Gossips  and 
neighbors  took  it  upon  themselves  to  explain  the  sudden 
death,  and  no  suspicion  of  blame  lighted  upon  Remonencq. 

"  Oh,  this  long  time  past  I  have  said  that  Monsieur  Cibot 
was  not  well,"  cried  one. 

"  He  worked  too  hard,  he  did,"  said  another;  "  he  heated 
his  blood." 

''  He  would  not  listen  to  me,"  put  in  a  neighbor;  "  I  ad- 
vised him  to  walk  out  of  a  Sunday  and  keep  Saint  Monday ; 
two  days  in  the  week  is  not  too  much  for  amusement." 

In  short,  the  gossip  of  the  quarter,  the  tell-tale  voice  to 
which  Justice,  in  the  person  of  the  commissary  of  police,  the 
king  of  the  poorer  classes,  lends  an  attentive  ear — gossip  ex- 
plained the  little  tailor's  demise  in  a  perfectly  satisfactory 
manner.  Yet  M.  Poulain's  pensive  air  and  uneasy  eyes  em- 
barrassed Remonencq  not  a  little,  and  at  sight  of  the  doctor 
he  offered  eagerly  to  go  in  search  of  M.  Trognon,  Fraisier's 
acquaintance.  Fraisier  turned  to  La  Cibot  to  say  in  a  low 
voice,  "I  shall  come  back  again  as  soon  as  the  will  is  made. 
In  spite  of  your  sorrow,  you  must  look  out  for  squalls." 
Then  he  slipped  away  like  a  shadow  and  met  his  friend  the 
doctor. 

"Ah,  Poulain!"  he  exclaimed,  "it  is  all  right.  We  are 
safe  !  I  will  tell  you  about  it  to-night.  Look  out  a  post  that 
will  suit  you,  you  shall  have  it  !  For  my  own  part,  I  am  a 
justice  of  the  peace.  Tabareau  will  not  refuse  me  now  for  a 
son-in-law.     And  as  for  you,  I  will  undertake  that  you  shall 


340  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

marry  Mademoiselle  Vitel,  granddaughter  of  our  justice  of  the 
peace." 

Fraisier  left  Poulain  reduced  to  dumb  bewilderment  by 
these  wild  words  ;  bounced  like  a  ball  into  the  boulevard, 
hailed  an  omnibus,  and  was  set  down  ten  minutes  later  by  the 
modern  coach  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Choiseul.  By  this 
time  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock.  Fraisier  felt  quite  sure  of  a 
word  in  private  with  the  presidente,  for  officials  seldom  leave 
the  Palais  de  Justice  before  five  o'clock. 

Mme.  de  Marville's  reception  of  him  assured  Fraisier  that 
M.  Leboeuf  had  kept  the  promise  made  to  Mme.  Vatinelle  and 
spoken  favorably  of  the  sometime  attorney  of  Mantes.  Amelie's 
manner  was  almost  caressing.  So  might  the  Duchesse  de 
Montpensier  have  treated  Jacques  Clement.  The  petty  at- 
torney was  a  knife  to  her  hand.  But,  when  Fraisier  produced 
the  joint-letter  signed  by  Elie  Magus  and  Remonencq  offering 
the  sum  of  nine  hundred  thousand  francs  in  cash  for  Pons' 
collection,  then  the  presidente  looked  at  her  man  of  business 
and  the  gleam  of  the  money  flashed  from  her  eyes.  That 
ripple  of  greed  reached  the  attorney. 

"  Monsieur  le  President  left  a  message  with  me,"  she  said  ; 
'■'■  he  hopes  that  you  will  dine  with  us  to-morrow.  It  will  be  a 
family  party.  Monsieur  Godeschal,  Desroche's  successor  and 
my  attorney,  will  come  to  meet  you,  and  Berthier,  our  notary, 
and  my  daughter  and  son-in-law.  After  dinner,  you  and  I 
and  the  notary  and  attorney  will  have  the  little  consultation 
for  which  you  ask,  and  I  will  give  you  full  powers.  The  two 
gentlemen  will  do  as  you  require  and  act  upon  your  inspira- 
tion ;  and  see  that  everything  goes  well.  You  shall  have  a 
power  of  attorney  from  Monsieur  de  Ma'rville  as  soon  as  you 
want  it." 

"I  shall  want  it  on  the  day  of  the  decease." 

"  It  shall  be  in  readiness." 

"  Madame  le  Presidente,  if  I  ask  for  a  power  of  attorney, 
and  would  prefer  that  your  attorney's  name  should  not  appear, 


COUSIiV  rOA'S.  341 

I  wish  it  less  in  my  own  interest  than  in  yours.  When  I  give 
myself,  it  is  without  reserve.  And  in  return,  madame,  I  ask 
the  same  fidelity  ]  I  ask  my  patrons  (I  do  not  venture  to  call 
you  my  clients)  to  put  the  same  confidence  in  me.  You  may 
think  that  in  acting  thus  I  am  trying  to  fasten  upon  this  affair 
— no,  no,  madame  ;  there  may  be  reprehensible  things  done ; 

with  an  inheritance  in  view  one  is  dragged  on especially 

with  nine  hundred  thousand  francs  in  the  balance.  Well,  now, 
you  could  not  disavow  a  man  like  Maitre  Godeschal,  honesty 
itself,  but  you  can  throw  all  the  blame  on  the  back  of  a  miser- 
able pettifogging  lawyer " 

Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  looked  admiringly  at  Fraisier, 

"  You  ought  to  go  very  high,"  said  she,  "  or  sink  very  low. 
In  your  place,  instead  of  asking  to  hide  myself  away  as  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  I  would  aim  at  a  crown  attorney's  appoint- 
ment— at,  say.  Mantes  ! — and  make  a  great  career  for  myself." 

"  Let  me  have  my  way,  madame.  The  post  of  justice  of 
the  peace  is  an  ambling  pad  for  Monsieur  Vitel ;  for  me  it 
shall  be  a  war-horse." 

And  in  this  way  the  presidente  proceeded  to  a  final  confi- 
dence. 

'•'You  seem  to  be  so  completely  devoted  to  our  interests," 
she  began,  "  that  I  will  tell  you  about  the  difficulties  of 
our  position  and  our  hopes.  The  president's  great  desire, 
ever  since  a  match  was  projected  between  his  daughter  and 
an  adventurer  who  recently  started  a  bank — the  president's 
wish,  I  say,  has  been  to  round  out  the  Marville  estate  with 
some  grazing  land,  at  that  time  in  the  market.  We  dis- 
possessed ourselves  of  fine  property,  as  you  know,  to  settle  it 
upon  our  daughter  ;  but  I  wish  very  much,  my  daughter  being 
an  only  child,  to  buy  all  that  remains  of  the  grass  land.  Part 
has  been  sold  already.  The  estate  belongs  to  an  Englishman 
who  is  returning  to  England  after  a  twenty  years'  residence  in 
France.  He  built  the  most  charming  cottage  in  a  delightful 
situation,  between  Marville  Park  and  the  meadows  which  once 


342  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

were  part  of  the  Marville  lands ;  he  bought  up  covers,  copse, 
and  gardens  at  fancy  prices  to  make  the  grounds  about  the 
cottage.  The  house  and  its  surroundings  make  a  feature  of 
the  landscape,  and  it  lies  close  to  my  daughter's  park  palings. 
The  whole,  land  and  house,  should  be  bought  for  seven  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  for  the  net  revenue  is  about  twenty 
thousand  francs.  But  if  Mr.  Wadman  finds  out  that  we  think 
of  buying  it,  he  is  sure  to  add  another  two  or  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  to  the  price ;  for  he  will  lose  money  if  the  house 
counts  for  nothing,  as  it  usually  does  when  you  buy  land  in 
the  country." 

"  Why,  madame,"  Fraisier  broke  in,  "my  opinion  is  you  can 
be  so  sure  that  the  inheritance  is  yours  that  I  will  offer  to  act 
the  part  of  purchaser  for  you.  I  will  undertake  that  you  shall 
have  the  land  at  the  best  possible  price,  and  have  a  written 
ensagement  made  out  under  private  seal,  like  a  contract  to 
deliver  goods.  I  will  go  to  the  Englishman  in  the  character 
of  buyer.  I  well  understand  that  sort  of  thing ;  it  was  my 
specialty  at  Mantes.  Vatinelle  doubled  the  value  of  his 
practice,  while  I  worked  in  his  name." 

"  Hence  your  connection  with  little  Madame  Vatinelle. 
He  must  be  very  well  off 

"  But  Madame  Vatinelle  has  expensive  tastes.  So  be  easy, 
madame— I  will  serve  you  up  the  Englishman  done  to  a 
turn " 

"If  you  can  manage  that  you  will  have  eternal  claims  to 
my  gratitude.  Good-day,  my  dear  Monsieur  Fraisier.  Till 
to-morrow ' ' 

Fraisier  went.  His  parting  bow  was  a  degree  less  cringing 
than  on  the  first  occasion. 

"  I  am  to  dine  to-morrow  with  President  de  Marville  !  "  he 
said  to  himself.  "  Come,  now,  I  have  these  people  in  my 
power.  Only,  to  be  absolute  master,  I  ought  to  be  the  Ger- 
man's legal  adviser  in  the  person  of  Tabareau,  the  justice's 
clerk.     Tabareau  will  not  have  me  now  for  his  daughter,  his 


COUSIN  PONS.  343 

only  daughter,  but  he  will  give  her  to  me  when  I  am  a  justice 
of  the  peace.  I  shall  be  eligible.  Mademoiselle  Tabareau, 
that  tall  consumptive  girl  with  the  red  hair,  has  a  house  in  the 
Place  Royale  in  right  of  her  mother.  At  her  father's  death 
she  is  sure  to  come  in  for  six  thousand  livres  per  annum  as 
well.  She  is  not  handsome  ;  but,  good  Lord,  if  you  step  from 
nothing  at  all  to  an  income  of  eighteen  thousand  francs,  you 
must  not  look  too  hard  at  the  plank." 

As  he  went  back  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie  by  way  of  the 
boulevards,  he  dreamed  out  his  golden  dream  ;  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  happiness  of  the  thought  that  he  should  never 
know  want  again.  He  would  marry  his  friend  Poulain  to 
Mile.  Vitel,  the  daughter  of  the  justice  of  the  peace  ;  together, 
he  and  his  friend  the  doctor  would  reign  like  kings  in  the 
quarter;  he  would  carryall  the  elections — municipal,  military, 
or  political.  The  boulevards  seem  short  if,  while  you  pace 
afoot,  you  mount  your  ambition  on  the  steed  of  fancy  in  this 
way. 

Schmucke  meanwhile  went  back  to  his  friend  Pons  with  the 
news  that  Cibot  was  dying,  and  Remonencq  gone  in  search  of 
M.  Trognon  the  notary.  Pons  was  struck  by  the  name.  It 
had  come  up  again  and  again  in  La  Cibot's  interminable  talk, 
and  La  Cibot  always  recommended  him  as  honesty  incarnate. 
And  with  that  a  luminous  idea  occurred  to  Pons,  in  whom 
mistrust  had  grown  paramount  since  the  morning,  an  idea 
which  completed  his  plan  for  outwitting  La  Cibot  and  un- 
masking her  completely  for  the  too-credulous  Schmucke. 

So  many  unexpected  things  had  happened  that  day  that 
poor  Schmucke  was  quite  bewildered.  Pons  took  his  friend's 
hand. 

"  There  must  be  a  good  deal  of  confusion  in  the  house, 
Schmucke ;  if  the  porter  is  at  death's  door,  we  are  almost  free 
for  a  minute  or  two ;  that  is  to  say,  there  will  be  no  spies — 
for  we  are  watched,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Go  out,  take  a 
cab,  go  the  theatre,  and  tell  Mile.   Heloise  Brisetout  that  I 


344  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

should  like  to  see  her  before  I  die.  Ask  her  to  come  here  to- 
night when  she  leaves  the  theatre.  Then  go  to  your  friends 
Brunner  and  Schwab  and  beg  them  to  come  to-morrow  morn- 
ing at  nine  o'clock  to  inquire  after  me  ;  let  them  come  up  as 
if  they  were  just  passing  by  and  called  in  to  see  me." 

The  old  artist  felt  that  he  was  dying,  and  this  was  the 
scheme  that  he  forged.  He  meant  Schmucke  to  be  his  uni- 
versal legatee.  To  protect  Schmucke  from  any  possible  legal 
quibbles  he  proposed  to  dictate  his  will  to  a  notary  in  the 
presence  of  witnesses,  lest  his  sanity  should  be  called  in  ques- 
tion and  the  Camusots  should  attempt  upon  that  pretext  to 
dispute  the  will.  At  the  name  of  Trognon  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  machinations  of  some  kind ;  perhaps  a  flaw  purposely  in- 
serted, or  premeditated  treachery  on  La  Cibot's  part.  He 
would  prevent  this.  Trognon  should  dictate  a  holograph  will 
which  should  be  signed  and  deposited  in  a  sealed  envelope  in 
a  drawer.  Then  Schmucke,  hidden  in  one  of  the  cabinets  in 
his  alcove,  should  see  La  Cibot  search  for  the  will,  find  it, 
open  the  envelope,  read  it  through,  and  seal  it  again.  Next 
morning,  at  nine  o'clock,  he  would  cancel  the  will  and  make 
a  new  one  in  the  presence  of  two  notaries,  everything  in  due 
form  and  order.  La  Cibot  had  treated  him  as  a  madman  and 
a  visionary ;  he  saw  what  this  meant — he  saw  the  presidente's 
hate  and  greed,  her  revenge  in  La  Cibot's  behavior.  In  the 
sleepless  hours  and  lonely  days  of  the  last  two  months,  the 
poor  man  had  sifted  the  events  of  his  past  life. 

It  has  been  the  wont  of  sculptors,  ancient  and  modern,  to 
set  a  tutelary  genius  with  a  lighted  torch  upon  either  side  of  a 
tomb.  Those  torches  that  light  up  the  paths  of  death  throw 
light  for  dying  eyes  upon  the  spectacle  of  a  life's  mistakes  and 
sins  ;  the  carved  stone  figures  express  great  ideas,  they  are 
symbols  of  a  fact  in  human  experience.  The  agony  of  death 
has  its  own  wisdom.  Not  seldom  a  simple  girl,  scarcely  more 
than  a  child,  will  grow  wise  with  the  experience  of  a  hundred 
years,  will  gain  prophetic  vision,  judge  her  family,  and  see 


COUSI.Y  PDA'S.  345 

clearly  through  all  pretenses,  at  the  near  approach  of  death. 
Herein  lies  Death's  poetry.  But,  strange  and  worthy  of 
remark  it  is,  there  are  two  manners  of  death. 

The  poetry  of  prophecy,  the  gift  of  seeing  clearly  into  the 
future  or  the  past,  only  belongs  to  those  whose  bodies  are 
stricken,  to  those  who  die  by  the  destruction  of  the  organs  of 
physical  life.  Consumptive  patients,  for  instance,  or  those 
who  die  of  gangrene  like  Louis  XIV.,  of  fever  like  Pons,  of  a 
stomach  complaint  like  Mme.  de  Mortsauf,  or  of  wounds 
received  in  the  full  tide  of  life  like  soldiers  on  the  battle-field 
— all  these  may  possess  this  supreme  lucidity  to  the  full ;  their 
deaths  fill  us  with  surprise  and  wonder.  But  many,  on  the 
other  hand,  die  of  intelligeniial  diseases,  as  they  may  be  called; 
of  maladies  seated  in  the  brain  or  in  that  nervous  system  which 
acts  as  a  kind  of  purveyor  of  thought  fuel — and  these  die 
wholly,  body  and  spirit  are  darkened  together.  The  former 
are  spirits  deserted  by  the  body,  realizing  for  us  our  ideas  of 
the  spirits  of  scripture  ;  the  latter  are  bodies  untenanted  by  a 
spirit. 

Too  late  the  virgin  nature,  the  epicure-Cato,  the  righteous 
man  almost  without  sin,  was  discovering  the  presidente's  real 
character — the  sac  of  gall  that  did  duty  for  her  heart.  He 
knew  the  world  now  that  he  was  about  to  leave  it,  and  for  the 
past  few  hours  he  had  risen  gayly  to  his  part,  like  a  joyous 
artist  finding  a  pretext  for  caricature  and  laughter  in  every- 
thing. The  last  links  that  bound  him  to  life,  the  chains  of 
admiration,  the  strong  ties  that  bind  the  art  lover  to  Art's 
masterpieces,  had  been  snapped  that  morning.  When  Pons 
knew  that  La  Cibot  had  robbed  him,  he  bade  farewell,  like  a 
Christian,  to  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  Art,  to  his  collection, 
to  all  his  old  friendships  with  the  makers  of  so  many  fair 
things.  Our  forefathers  counted  the  day  of  death  as  a  Chris- 
tian festival,  and  in  something  of  the  same  spirit  Pons' 
thoughts  turned  to  the  coming  end.  In  his  tender  love  he 
tried  to  protect  Schmucke  when  he  should  be  low  in  the  grave. 


346  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

It  was  this  father-thought  that  led  him  to  fix  his  choice  upon 
the  leading  lady  of  the  ballet.  Mile.  Brisetout  should  help 
him  to  baffle  surrounding  treachery,  and  those  who  in  all 
probability  would  never  forgive  his  innocent  universal  legatee. 

HeloTse  Brisetout  was  one  of  the  few  natures  that  remain 
true  in  a  false  position.  She  was  an  opera-girl  of  the  school 
of  Josepha  and  Jenny  Cadine,  capable  of  playing  any  trick  on 
a  paying  adorer ;  yet  she  was  a  good  comrade,  dreading  no 
power  on  earth,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  see  the  weak  side 
of  the  strong,  and  to  hold  her  own  with  the  police  at  the 
scarcely  idyllic  Bal  de  Mabille  and  the  carnival. 

"If  she  asked  for  my  place  for  Garangeot,  she  will  think 
that  she  owes  me  a  good  turn  by  so  much  the  more,"  said 
Pons  to  himself. 

Thanks  to  the  prevailing  confusion  in  the  porter's  lodge, 
Schmucke  succeeded  in  getting  out  of  the  house.  He  re- 
turned with  the  utmost  speed,  fearing  to  leave  Pons  too  long 
alone.  M.  Trognon  reached  the  house  just  as  Schmucke  came 
in.  Albeit  Cibot  was  dying,  his  wife  came  upstairs  with  the 
notary,  brought  him  into  the  bedroom,  and  withdrew,  leaving 
Schmucke  and  Pons  with  M.  Trognon  ;  but  she  left  the  door 
ajar,  and  went  no  farther  than  the  next  room.  Providing 
herself  with  a  little  hand-glass  of  curious  workmanship,  she 
took  up  her  station  in  the  doorway,  so  that  she  could  not  only 
hear  but  see  alJ  that  passed  at  the  supreme  moment. 

"  Sir,"  said  Pons,  "  I  am  in  the  full  possession  of  my  facul- 
ties, unfortunately  for  me,  for  I  feel  that  I  am  about  to  die ; 
and,  doubtless,  by  the  will  of  God,  I  shall  be  spared  nothing 
of  the  agony  of  death.  This  is  Monsieur  Schmucke  " — (the 
notary  bowed  to  M.  Schmucke) — ''my  one  friend  on  earth," 
continued  Pons.  "  I  wish  to  make  him  my  universal  legatee. 
Now,  tell  me  how  to  word  the  will,  so  that  my  friend,  who  is  a 
German  and  knows  nothing  of  French  law,  may  succeed  to 
my  possessions  without  any  dispute." 

"Anything  is  liable  to  be  disputed,  sir,"  said  the  notary; 


COUSIN  PONS.  347 

*'  that  is  the  drawback  of  human  justice.  But  in  the  matter 
of  wills,  there  are  wills  so  drafted  that  they  cannot  be  up- 
set  " 

"In  what  way?"  queried  Pons. 

*'  If  a  will  is  made  in  the  presence  of  a  notary,  and  before 
witnesses  who  can  swear  that  the  testator  was  in  the  full  posses- 
sion of  his  faculties;  and  if  the  testator  has  neither  wife  nor 
children,  nor  father  nor  mother " 

"  I  have  none  of  these  ;  all  my  affection  is  centred  upon  my 
dear  friend  Schmucke  here." 

The  tears  overflowed  Schmucke's  eyes. 

"  Then,  if  you  have  none  but  distant  relatives,  the  law  leaves 
you  free  to  dispose  of  both  personalty  and  real  estate  as  you 
please,  so  long  as  you  bequeath  them  for  no  unlawful  purpose  ; 
for  you  must  have  come  across  cases  of  wills  disputed  on  ac- 
count of  the  testator's  eccentricities.  A  will  made  in  the 
presence  of  a  notary  is  considered  to  be  authentic  ;  for  the 
person's  identity  is  established,  the  notary  certifies  that  the 
testator  was  sane  at  the  time,  and  there  can  be  no  possible 
dispute  over  the  signature.  Still,  a  holograph  will,  properly 
and  clearly  worded,  is  quite  as  safe." 

"I  have  decided,  for  reasons  of  my  own,  to  make  a  holo- 
graph will  at  your  dictation,  and  to  deposit  it  with  my  friend 
here.     Is  this  possible?" 

"Quite  possible,"  said  the  notary.  "Will  you  write?  I 
will  begin  to  dictate." 

"  Schmucke,  bring  me  my  little  Boule  writing-desk.  Speak 
low,  sir,"  he  added  ;   "we  may  be  overheard." 

"  Just  tell  me,  first  of  all,  what  you  intend,"  demanded  the 
notary. 

Ten  minutes  later  La  Cibot  saw  the  notary  look  over  the 
will,  while  Schmucke  lighted  a  taper  (Pons  watching  her  reflec- 
tion all  the  while  in  a  mirror).  She  saw  the  envelope  sealed, 
saw  Pons  cive  it  to  Schmucke,  and  heard  him  sav  that  it  must 
be  put  away  in  a  secret  drawer  in  his  bureau.     Then  the  tes- 


348  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

tator  asked  for  the  key,  tied   it  to  the  corner  of  his  handker- 
chief, and  slipped  it  under  his  pillow. 

The  notary  himself,  by  courtesy,  was  appointed  executor. 
To  him  Pons  left  a  picture  of  price,  such  a  thing  as  the  law 
permits  a  notary  to  receive.  Trognon  went  out  and  came 
upon  Mme.  Cibot  in  the  salon. 

"Well,  sir,  did  Monsieur  Pons  remember  me?" 

"You  do  not  expect  a  notary  to  betray  secrets  confided  to 
him,  my  dear,"  returned  M.  Trognon.  "  I  can  only  tell  you 
this — there  will  be  many  disappointments,  and  some  that  are 
anxious  after  the  money  will  be  foiled.  Monsieur  Pons  has 
made  a  good  and  very  sensible  will,  a  patriotic  will,  which  I 
highly  approve." 

La  Cibot's  curiosity,  kindled  by  such  words,  reached  an  un- 
imaginable pitch.  She  went  downstairs  and  spent  the  night 
at  Cibot's  bedside,  inwardly  resolving  that  Mile.  Remon- 
encq  should  take  her  place  toward  two  or  three  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  she  would  go  up  and  have  a  look  at  the  document. 

Mille.  Brisetout's  visit  toward  half-past  ten  that  night 
seemed  natural  enough  to  La  Cibot ;  but  in  her  terror  lest  the 
ballet-girl  should  mention  Gaudissart's  gift  of  a  thousand 
francs,  she  went  upstairs  with  her,  lavishing  polite  speeches 
and  flattery  as  if  Mile.  Heloise  had  been  a  queen. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear,  you  are  much  nicer  here  on  your  own 
ground  than  at  the  theatre,"  HeloVse  remarked.  "  I  advise 
you  to  keep  to  your  employment." 

Heloise  was  splendidly  dressed.  Bixiou,  her  lover,  had 
brought  her  in  his  carriage  on  the  way  to  an  evening  party  at 
Mariette's.  It  so  fell  out  that  the  second-floor  lodger,  M. 
Chapoulot,  a  retired  braid  manufacturer  from  the  Rue  Saint- 
Denis,  returning  from  the  Ambigu-Comique  with  his  wife  and 
daughter,  was  dazzled  by  a  vision  of  such  a  costume  and  such 
a  charming  woman  upon  their  staircase. 

"Who  is  that,  Madame  Cibot?"  asked  Mme.   Chapoulot. 

"A    no-bctter-than-she-should-be,   a    light-skirts    that  you 


COUSIN  PONS.  349 

may  see  half-naked  any  evening  for  a  couple  of  francs,"  La 
Cibot  answered  in  an  undertone  for  Mme.  Chapoulot's  ear. 

"Victorinel  "  called  the  braid  manufacturer's  wife,  ''let 
the  lady  pass,  child." 

The  matron's  alarm-signal  was  not  lost  upon  Heloise. 

**  Your  daughter  must  be  more  inflammable  than  tinder, 
madame,  if  you  are  afraid  that  she  will  catch  fire  by  touching 
me,"  she  said. 

M.  Chapoulot  waited  on  the  landing.  ''  She  is  uncom- 
monly handsome  off  the  stage,"  he  remarked.  Whereupon 
Mme.  Chapoulot  pinched  him  sharply  and  drove  him  indoors. 

"  Here  is  a  third-floor  lodger  that  has  a  mind  to  set  up  for 
beinsr  on  the  fourth  floor,"  said  Heloise,  as  she  continued  to 
climb. 

"  But  mademoiselle  is  accustomed  to  going  higher  and 
higher." 

"Well,  old  boy,"  said  Heloise,  entering  the  bedroom  and 
catching  sight  of  the  old  musician's  white,  wasted  face. 
"Well,  old  boy,  so  we  are  not  very  well?  Everybody  at  the 
theatre  is  asking  after  you ;  but  though  one's  heart  may  be  in 
the  right  place,  every  one  has  his  own  affairs,  you  know,  and 
cannot  find  time  to  go  to  see  friends.  Gaudissart  talks  of 
coming  round  every  day,  and  every  morning  the  tiresome 
management  gets  hold  of  him.  Still,  we  are  all  of  us  fond  of 
you " 

"  Madame  Cibot,"  said  the  patient,  "  be  so  kind  as  to  leave 
us ;  we  want  to  talk  about  the  theatre  and  my  post  as  con- 
ductor, with  this  lady.  Schmucke,  will  you  go  to  the  door 
with  Madame  Cibot?" 

At  a  sign  from  Pons,  Schmucke  saw  Mme.  Cibot  out  at 
the  door,  and  drew  the  bolts. 

"Ah,  that  blackguard  of  a  German  !  Is  he  spoiled  too?" 
La  Cibot  said  to  herself  as  she  heard  the  significant  sounds. 
"That  is  Monsieur  Pons'  doing;  he  taught  him  these  dis- 
gusting tricks.     But   you  shall  pay  for  this,  my  dears,"   she 


350  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

thought,  as  she  went  down  the  stairs.  "  Pooh  !  if  that  tight- 
rope dancer  tells  him  about  the  thousand  francs,  I  shall  say 
that  it  is  a  farce." 

She  seated  herself  by  Cibot's  pillow.  Cibot  complained  of 
a  burning  sensation  in  the  stomach.  Remonencq  had  called 
in  and  given  him  a  draught  while  his  wife  was  upstairs. 

As  ^oon  as  Schmucke  had  dismissed  La  Cibot,  Pons  turned 
to  the  ballet-girl. 

"  Dear  child,  I  can  trust  no  one  else  to  find  me  a  notary, 
an  honest  man,  and  send  him  here  to  make  my  will  to-morrow 
morning  at  half-past  nine  precisely.  I  want  to  leave  all  that 
I  have  to  Schmucke.  If  he  is  persecuted,  poor  German  that 
he  is,  I  shall  reckon  upon  the  notary ;  the  notary  must 
defend  him.  And  for  that  reason  I  must  have  a  very  wealthy 
notary,  highly  thought  of,  a  man  above  the  temptations  to 
which  pettifogging  lawyers  yield.  He  must  succor  my  poor 
friend.  I  cannot  trust  Berthier,  Cardot's  successor.  And 
you  know  so  many  people " 

"Oh!  I  have  the  very  man  for  you,"  HeloYse  broke  in; 
"there  is  the  notary  that  acts  for  Florine  and  the  Comtesse 
du  Bruel,  Leopold  Hannequin,  a  virtuous  man  that  does  not 
know  what  a  lorette  is  !  He  is  a  sort  of  chance-come  father — 
a  good  soul  that  will  not  let  you  play  ducks  and  drakes  with 
your  earnings ;  I  call  him  Le  P'ere  aux  Rais,*  because  he  in- 
stills economical  notions  into  the  minds  of  all  my  friends.  In 
the  first  place,  my  dear  fellow,  he  has  a  private  income  of 
sixty  thousand  francs ;  and  he  is  a  notary  of  the  real  old  sort, 
a  notary  while  he  walks  or  sleeps ;  his  children  must  be  little 
notaries  and  notariesses.  He  is  a  heavy,  pedantic  creature, 
and  that's  the  truth  ;  but  on  his  own  ground,  he  is  not  the 
man  to  flinch  before  any  power  in  creation.  No  woman  ever 
got  money  out  of  him  ;  he  is  a  fossil  paterfamilias,  his  wife 
worships  him  and  does  not  deceive  him,  although  she  is  a 
notary's  wife.     What  more  do  you  want?  as  a  notary  he  has 

*  Father  to  the  rats. 


COUSIN  PONS.  .  351 

not  his  match  in  Paris.  He  is  in  the  patriarchal  style  j  not 
queer  and  amusing,  as  Cardot  used  to  be  with  Malaga;  but 
he  will  never  decamp  like  little  What's-his-name  that  lived 
with  Antonio.  So  I  will  send  round  my  man  to-morrow  morn- 
ing at  eight  o'clock.  You  may  sleep  in  peace.  And  I  hope, 
in  the  first  place,  that  you  will  get  better,  and  make  charming 
music  for  us  again  ;  and  yet,  after  all,  you  see,  life  is  very 
dreary — managers  chisel  you,  and  kings  mizzle  and  ministers 
fizzle  and  rich  folk  economizzle.  Artists  have  nothing  left 
here'^  (tapping  her  breast) — '*  it  is  a  time  to  die  in.  Good- 
by,  old  boy." 

"  HeloTse,  of  all  things,  I  ask  you  to  keep  my  counsel." 
"It  is  not  a  theatre  affair,"  she  said  ;    "  it  is  sacred  for  an 


artist." 


"  Who  is  your  gentleman,  child  ?  " 

"Monsieur  Baudoyer,  the  mayor  of  your  arrondissement,  a 
man  as  stupid  as  the  late  Crevel ;  Crevel  once  financed  Gau- 
dissart,  you  know,  and  a  few  days  ago  he  died  and  left  me 
nothing,  not  so  much  as  a  pot  of  pomatum.  That  made  me 
say  just  now  that  this  age  of  ours  is  something  sickening." 

"What  did  he  die  of?" 

"Of  his  wife.  If  he  had  stayed  with  me,  he  would  be 
living  now.  Good-by,  dear  old  boy.  I  am  talking  of  going 
off,  because  I  can  see  that  you  will  be  walking  about  the 
boulevards  in  a  week  or  two,  hunting  up  pretty  little  curiosi- 
ties again.  You  are  not  ill  ;  I  never  saw  your  eyes  look  so 
bright."  And  she  went,  fully  convinced  that  her  protege 
Garangeot  would  conduct  the  orchestra  for  good. 

Every  door  stood  ajar  as  she  went  downstairs.  Every 
lodger,  on  tiptoe,  watched  the  lady  of  the  ballet  pass  on  her 
way  out.     It  was  quite  an  event  in  the  house. 

Fraisier,  like  the  bull-dog  that  sets  his  teeth  and  never  lets 
go,  was  on  the  spot.  He  stood  beside  La  Cibot  when  Mile. 
Brisetout  passed  under  the  gateway  and  asked  for  the  door  to 
be  opened.     Knowing  that  a  will  had  been  made,  he   had 


352  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

come  to  see  how  the  land  lay,  for  Maitre  Trognon,  notary, 
had  refused  to  say  a  syllable — Fraisier's  questions  were  as 
fruitless  as  Mme.  Cibot's.  Naturally  the  ballet-girl's  visit  in 
extremis  was  not  lost  upon  Fraisier ;  he  vowed  to  himself  that 
he  would  turn  it  to  good  account. 

"  My  dear  Madame  Cibot,"  he  began,  '*  now  is  the  critical 
moment  for  you." 

"Ah,  yes — my  poor  Cibot!"  said  she.  "When  I  think 
that  he  will  not  live  to  enjoy  anything  I  may  get " 

"It  is  a  question  of  finding  out  whether  Monsieur  Pons 
has  left  you  anything  at  all ;  whether  your  name  is  mentioned 
or  left  out,  in  fact,"  he  interrupted.  "I  represent  the  next- 
of-kin,  and  to  them  you  must  look  in  any  case.  It  is  a  holo- 
graph will,  and  consequently  very  easy  to  upset.  Do  you 
know  where  our  man  has  put  it?  " 

"  In  a  secret  drawer  in  his  bureau,  and  he  has  the  key  of  it. 
He  tied  it  to  a  corner  of  his  handkerchief,  and  put  it  under 
his  pillow.     I  saw  it  all." 

**Is  the  will  sealed  ?" 

"Yes,  alas!  " 

"  It  is  a  criminal  offense  if  you  carry  off  a  will  and  suppress 
it,  but  it  is  only  a  misdemeanor  to  look  at  it ;  and  anyhow, 
what  does  it  amount  to?  A  peccadillo,  and  nobody  will  see 
you.     Is  your  man  a  heavy  sleeper?  " 

"Yes.  But  when  you  tried  to  see  all  the  things  and  value 
them,  he  ought  to  have  slept  like  a  top,  and  yet  he  woke  up. 
Still,  I  will  see  about  it.  I  will  take  Monsieur  Schmucke's 
place  about  four  o'clock  this  morning;  and  if  you  care  to 
come,  you  shall  have  the  will  in  your  hands  for  ten  min- 
utes." 

"  Good.  I  will  come  up  about  four  o'clock,  and  I  will 
knock  very  softly " 

"  Mademoiselle  Remonencq  will  take  my  place  with  Cibot. 
She  will  know,  and  open  the  door ;  but  tap  on  the  window, 
so  as  to  rouse  nobody  in  the  house." 


COUSIN  PONS.  353 

"Right,"  said  Fraisier.  "You  will  have  a  light,  will  you 
not?    A  candle  will  do." 

At  midnight  poor  Schmucke  sat  in  his  easy-chair,  watching 
with  a  breaking  heart  that  shrinking  of  the  features  that  comes 
with  death ;  Pons  looked  so  worn  out  with  the  day's  exertions 
that  death  seemed  very  near. 

Presently  Pons  spoke.  "I  have  just  enough  strength,  I 
think,  to  last  till  to-morrow  night,"  he  said  philosophically. 
"Yes,  to-morrow  night  the  death-agony  will  begin;  poor 
Schmucke  !  As  soon  as  the  notary  and  your  two  friends  are 
gone,  go  for  our  good  Abbe  Duplanty,  the  curate  of  Saint- 
Francois.  Good  man,  he  does  not  know  that  I  am  ill,  and  I 
wish  to  take  the  holy  sacrament  to-morrow  at  noon." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  God  so  willed  it  that  life  has  not  been  as  I  dreamed," 
Pons  resumed.  "  I  should  so  have  loved  wife  and  children 
and  home.  To  be  loved  by  a  very  few  in  some  corner — that 
was  my  whole  ambition  !  Life  is  hard  for  every  one;  I  have 
seen  people  who  had  all  that  I  wanted  so  much  and  could  not 
have,  and  yet  they  were  not  happy.  Then  at  the  end  of  my 
life,  God  put  untold  comfort  in  my  way,  when  He  gave  me 
such  a  friend.  And  one  thing  I  have  not  to  reproach  my- 
self with — that  I  have  not  known  your  worth  nor  appreciated 
you,  my  good  Schmucke.  I  have  loved  you  with  my  whole 
heart,  with  all  the  strength  of  love  that  is  in  me.  Do  not  cry, 
Schmucke  ;  I  shall  say  no  more  if  you  cry,  and  it  is  so  sweet 
to  me  to  talk  of  ourselves  to  you.  If  I  had  listened  to  you, 
I  should  not  be  dying.  I  should  have  left  the  world  and 
broken  off  my  habits,  and  then  I  should  not  have  been  wounded 
to  death.  And  now,  I  want  to  think  of  no  one  but  you  at 
the  last " 

"  You  are  missdaken " 

"Do  not  contradict  me — listen,  dear  friend.  You  are  as 
guileless  and  simple  as  a  six-year-old  child  that  has  never  left 
23 


354  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

its  mother ;  one  honors  you  for  it — it  seems  to  me  that  God 
Himself  must  watcn  over  such  as  you.  But  men  are  so 
wicked,  that  I  ought  to  warn  you  beforehand — and  then  you 
will  lose  your  generous  trust,  your  saint-like  belief  in  others, 
the  bloom  of  a  purity  of  soul  that  only  belongs  to  genius  or 
to  hearts  like  yours.  In  a  little  while  you  will  see  Madame 
Cibot,  who  left  the  door  ajar  and  watched  us  closely  while 
Monsieur  Trognon  was  here — in  a  little  while  you  will  see  her 
come  for  the  will,  as  she  believes  it  to  be.  I  expect  the 
worthless  creature  will  do  her  business  this  morning  when  she 
thinks  you  are  asleep.  Now,  mind  what  I  say,  and  carry  out 
my  instructions  to  the  letter.  Are  you  listening?  "  asked  the 
dying  man. 

But  Schmucke  was  overcome  with  grief,  his  heart  was 
throbbing  painfully,  his  head  fell  back  on  the  chair,  he  seemed 
to  have  lost  consciousness. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  can  hear,  but  it  is  as  if  you  vere 
doo  huntert  baces  afay  from  me.  It  seem  to  me  dat  I  am 
going  town  into  der  grafe  mit  you,"  said  Schmucke,  crushed 
with  pain. 

He  went  over  to  the  bed,  took  one  of  Pons'  hands  in  both 
his  own,  and  within  himself  put  up  a  fervent  prayer. 

"  What  is  that  that  you  are  mumbling  in  German?"  asked 
the  sick  man. 

"I  asked  of  Gott  dat  He  vould  take  us  poth  togedders  to 
Himself!  "  Schmucke  answered  simply  when  he  had  finished 
his  prayer. 

Pons  bent  over — it  was  a  great  effort,  for  he  was  suffering 
intolerable  pain ;  but  he  managed  to  reach  Schmucke,  and 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  pouring  out.  his  soul,  as  it  were, 
in  benediction  upon  a  nature  that  recalled  the  lamb  that  lies 
at  the  foot  of  the  Throne  of  God. 

'*  See  here,  listen,  my  good  Schmucke,  you  must  do  as 
dying  people  tell  you " 

<*  I  am  lisdening." 


COUSIN  rOA'S.  355 

"The  little  door  in  the  recess  in  your  bedroom  opens  into 
that  closet." 

*'  Yes,  but  it  is  blocked  up  mit  bictures." 

"  Clear  them  away  at  once,  without  making  too  much 
noise." 

"Yes." 

*'  Clear  a  passage  on  both  sides,  so  that  you  can  pass  from 
your  room  into  mine.  Now,  leave  the  door  ajar.  When  La 
Cibot  comes  to  take  your  place  (and  she  is  capable  of  coming 
an  hour  earlier  than  usual),  you  can  go  away  to  bed  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  and  look  very  tired.  Try  to  look 
sleepy.  As  soon  as  she  settles  down  into  the  armchair,  go 
into  the  closet,  draw  aside  the  muslin  curtains  over  the  glass 
door,  and  watch  her.     Do  you  understand?  " 

"I  oondershtand  ;  you  belief  dat  die  pad  voman  is  going 
to  purn  der  vill." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  she  will  do ;  but  I  am  sure  of  this — 
that  you  will  not  take  her  for  an  angel  afterward.  And  now 
play  for  me ;  improvise  and  make  me  happy.  It  will  divert 
your  thoughts  ;  your  gloomy  ideas  will  vanish,  and  for  me  the 
dark  hours  will  be  filled  with  your  dreams " 

Schmucke  sat  down  to  the  piano.  Here  he  was  in  his 
element ;  and  in  a  few  moments  musical  inspiration,  quickened 
by  the  pain  with  which  he  was  quivering  and  the  consequent 
irritation  that  followed,  came  upon  the  kindly  German,  and, 
after  his  wont,  he  was  caught  up  and  borne  above  the  world. 
On  one  sublime  theme  after  another  he  executed  variations, 
putting  into  them  sometimes  Chopin's  sorrow,  Chopin's 
Raphael-like  perfection  ;  sometimes  the  stormy  Dante's  gran- 
deur of  Liszt — the  two  musicians  who  most  nearly  approach 
Paganini's  temperament.  When  execution  reaches  this  su- 
preme degree,  the  executant  stands  beside  the  poet,  as  it  were  ; 
he  is  to  the  composer  as  the  actor  is  to  the  writer  of  plays,  a 
divinely  inspired  interpreter  of  things  divine.  But  that  night, 
when  Schmucke  gave  Pons  an  earnest  of  diviner  symphonies, 


356  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

of  that  heavenly  music  for  which  Saint  Cecilia  let  fall  her 
instruments,  he  was  at  once  Beethoven  and  Paganini,  creator 
and  interpreter.  It  was  an  outpouring  of  music  inexhaustible 
as  the  nightingale's  song — varied  and  full  of  delicate  under- 
growth as  the  forest  flooded  with  her  trills ;  sublime  as  the  sky 
overhead.  Schmucke  played  as  he  had  never  played  before, 
and  the  soul  of  the  old  musician  listening  to  him  rose  to 
ecstasy  such  as  Raphael  once  painted  in  a  picture  which  you 
may  see  at  Bologna. 

A  terrific  ring  at  the  door-bell  put  an  end  to  these  visions. 
The  second-floor  lodgers  sent  up  the  servant  with  a  message. 
Would  Schmucke  please  to  stop  the  racket  overhead.  Madame, 
Monsieur,  and  Mademoiselle  Chapoulot  had  been  wakened, 
and  could  not  sleep  for  the  noise ;  they  called  his  attention  to 
the  fact  that  the  day  was  quite  long  enough  for  rehearsals  of 
theatrical  music,  and  added  that  people  ought  not  to  "  strum  " 
all  night  in  a  house  in  the  Marais.  It  was  then  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  At  half-past  three,  La  Cibot  appeared,  just 
as  Pons  had  predicted.  He  might  have  actually  heard  the 
conference  between  Fraisier  and  the  portress;  "Did  I  not 
guess  exactly  how  it  would  be?  "  his  eyes  seemed  to  say  as  he 
glanced  at  Schmucke,  and,  turning  a  little,  he  seemed  to  be 
fast  asleep. 

Schmucke's  guileless  simplicity  was  an  article  of  belief  with 
La  Cibot  (and  be  it  noted  that  this  faith  in  simplicity  is  the 
great  source  and  secret  of  the  success  of  all  infantine  strategy); 
La  Cibot,  therefore,  could  not  suspect  Schmucke  of  deceit 
when  he  came  to  say  to  her,  with  a  face  half  of  distress,  half 
of  glad  relief — ■ 

"I  haf  had  a  derrible  night  !  a  derrible  dime  of  it !  I  vas 
opliged  to  blay  to  keep  him  kviet,  and  the  secont-floor  lodgers 
vas  kom  up  to  tell  w<?  to  be  kviet !  It  was  frightful,  fer  der 
life  of  mein  friend  vas  at  shtake.  I  am  so  tired  mit  der  blay- 
ing  all  night,  dat  dis  morning  I  am  all  knocked  up." 

"  My  poor  Cibot  is  very  bad,  too  ;  one  more  day  like  yes- 


FRAISIER    READ    THE CURIOUS    DOCUMENT. 


COUSIN  PONS.  357 

terday,  and  he  will  have  no  strength  left.     One  can't  help  it ; 
it  is  God's  will." 

"You  haf  a  heart  so  honest,  a  soul  so  peautiful,  dot  gif  der 
Zipod  die,  ve  shall  lif  togedder,"  said  the  simple  but  cunning 
Schmucke. 

The  craft  of  simple,  straightforward  people  is  formidable 
indeed;  they  are  exactly  like  children,  setting  their  unsus- 
pected snares  with  the  perfect  craft  of  the  savage. 

"Oh,  well,  go  and  sleep,  sonny!"  returned  La  Cibot. 
"  Your  eyes  look  tired,  they  are  as  big  as  my  fist.  But  there  ! 
if  anything  could  comfort  me  for  losing  Cibot,  it  would  be  the 
thought  of  ending  my  days  with  a  good  man  like  you.  Be 
easy.  I  will  give  Madame  Chapoulot  a  dressing  down.  To 
think  of  a  retired  haberdasher's  wife  giving  herself  such  airs  !  " 

Schmucke  went  to  his  room  and  took  up  his  post  in  the 
closet. 

La  Cibot  had  left  the  door  ajar  on  the  landing ;  Fraisier 
came  in  and  closed  it  noiselessly  as  soon  as  he  heard  Schmucke 
shut  his  bedroom  door.  He  had  brought  with  him  a  lighted 
taper  and  a  bit  of  very  fine  wire  to  open  the  seal  of  the  will. 
La  Cibot,  meanwhile,  looking  under  the  pillow,  found  the 
handkerchief  with  the  key  of  the  bureau  knotted  to  one  cor- 
ner; and  this  so  much  the  more  easily  because  Pons  purposely 
left  the  end  hanging  out  over  the  bolster,  and  lay  with  his  face 
to  the  wall. 

La  Cibot  went  straight  to  the  bureau,  opened  it  cautiously 
so  as  to  make  as  little  noise  as  possible,  found  the  spring  of 
the  secret  drawer,  and  hurried  into  the  salon  with  the  will  in 
her  hand.  Her  flight  roused  Pons'  curiosity  to  the  highest 
pitch ;  and  as  for  Schmucke,  he  trembled  as  if  he  were  the 
guilty  person. 

"Go  back,"  said  Fraisier,  when  she  handed  over  the  will. 
"He  may  wake,  and  he  must  find  you  there." 

Fraisier  opened  the  seal  with  a  dexterity  which  proved  that 
his  was  no  'prentice  hand,  and  read  the  following  curious 


358  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

document,  headed  "My  Will,"  with  ever-deepening  aston- 
ishment : 

"  On  this  fifteenth  day  of  April,  eighteen  hundred  and  forty- 
five,  I,  being  in  my  sound  mind  (as  this  my  Will,  drawn  up 
in  concert  with  M.  Trognon,  will  testify)  and  feeling  that  I 
must  shortly  die  of  the  malady  from  which  I  have  suffered 
since  the  beginning  of  February  last,  am  anxious  to  dispose 
of  my  property,  and  have  herein  recorded  my  last  wishes : 

"I  have  always  been  impressed  by  the  untoward  circum- 
stances that  injure  great  pictures,  and  not  infrequently  bring 
about  total  destruction.  I  have  felt  sorry  for  the  beautiful 
paintings  condemned  to  travel  from  land  to  land,  never  find- 
ing some  fixed  abode  whither  admirers  of  great  masterpieces 
may  travel  to  see  them.  And  I  have  always  thought  that  the 
truly  deathless  work  of  a  great  master  ought  to  be  national 
property ;  put  where  every  one  of  every  nation  may  see  it, 
even  as  the  Light,  God's  masterpiece,  shines  for  all  His  chil- 
dren. 

"And  as  I  have  spent  my  life  in  collecting  together  and 
choosing  a  few  pictures,  some  of  the  greatest  masters'  most 
glorious  work,  and  as  these  pictures  are  as  the  master  left 
them — genuine  examples,  neither  repainted  nor  retouched — 
it  has  been  a  painful  thought  to  me  that  the  paintings  which 
have  been  the  joy  of  ray  life,  may  be  sold  by  public  auction, 
and  go,  some  to  England,  some  to  Russia,  till  they  are  all 
scattered  abroad  again  as  if  they  had  never  been  gathered 
t02;ether.  From  this  wretched  fate  I  have  determined  to  save 
both  them  and  the  frames  in  which  they  are  set,  all  of  them 
the  work  of  skilled  craftsmen. 

"On  these  grounds,  therefore,  I  give  and  bequeath  the 
pictures  which  compose  my  collection  to  the  King,  for  the 
gallery  in  the  Louvre,  subject  to  the  charge  (if  the  legacy  is 
accepted)  of  a  life-annuity  of  two  thousand  four  hundred  francs 
to  my  friend  Wilhelm  Schmucke. 


COUSIN  PONS.  359 

"  If  the  King,  as  usufructuary  of  the  Louvre  collection, 
should  refuse  the  legacy  with  the  charge  upon  it,  the  said 
pictures  shall  form  a  part  of  the  estate  which  I  leave  to  my 
friend  Schmucke,  on  condition  that  he  shall  deliver  the 
Monkey's  Head,  by  Goya,  to  my  cousin,  President  Camusot ; 
a  Flower-piece,  the  tulips,  by  Abraham  Mignon,  to  M.  Trog- 
non,  notary  (whom  I  appoint  as  my  executor)  ;  and  allow 
Madame  Cibot,  who  has  acted  as  my  housekeeper  for  ten 
years,  the  sum  of  two  hundred  francs  per  annum. 

"  Finally,  my  friend  Schmucke  is  to  give  the  Descent  from 
the  Cross,  Rubens'  sketch  for  his  great  picture  at  Antwerp,  to 
adorn  a  chapel  in  the  parish  church,  in  grateful  acknowledg- 
ment of  M.  Duplanty's  kindness  to  me ;  for  to  him  I  owe  it 
that  I  can  die  as  a  Christian  and  a  Catholic."  So  ran  the 
will. 

"  This  is  ruin  !  "  mused  Fraisier,  "  the  ruin  of  all  my  hopes. 
Ha  !  I  begin  to  believe  all  that  the  presidente  told  me  about 
this  old  artist  and  his  cunning." 

"  Well  ?  "  La  Cibot  came  back  to  say. 

"Your  gentleman  is  a  monster.     He  is  leaving  everything 

to  the  Crown.     Now,  you  cannot  plead  against  the  Crown 

The  will   cannot  be  disputed We   are  robbed,   ruined, 

spoiled,  and  murdered  !  " 

"  What  has  he  left  to  me  ?  " 

"  Two  hundred  francs  a  year." 

"A  pretty  come-down  !     Why,  he  is  a  finished  scoundrel !  ' ' 

"Go  and  see,"  said  Fraisier,  "and  I  will  put  your  scoun- 
drel's will  back  again  in  the  envelope." 

While  Mnie.  Cibot's  back  was  turned,  Fraisier  nimbly 
slipped  a  sheet  of  blank  paper  into  the  envelope ;  the  will  he 
put  in  his  pocket.  He  next  proceeded  to  seal  the  envelope 
again  so  cleverly  that  he  showed  the  seal  to  Mme.  Cibot  when 
she  returned,  and  asked  her  if  she  could  see  the  slightest  trace 
of  the  operation.     La  Cibot  took  up  the  envelope,  felt  it  over. 


360  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

assured  herself  that  it  was  not  empty,  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
She  had  entertained  hopes  that  Fraisier  himself  would  have 
burned  the  unlucky  document  while  she  was  out  of  the  room. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Monsieur  Fraisier,  what  is  to  be  done?  " 

"  Oh  !  that  is  your  affair  !  I  am  not  one  of  the  next-of- 
kin,  myself;  but  if  I  had  the  slightest  claim  to  any  of  that''^ 
(indicating  the  collection),  "  I  know  very  well  what  I  should 
do." 

"That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know,"  La  Cibot  answered, 
with  sufficient  simplicity. 

"There  is  a  fire  in  the  grate "  he  said.     Then  he  rose 

to  go. 

"  After  all,  no  one  will  know  about  it  but  you  and  me " 

began  La  Cibot, 


-£5'- 


It  can  never  be  proved  that  a  will  existed,"  asserted  the 
man  of  law. 

"And  you?" 

"I?  If  Monsieur  Pons  dies  intestate,  you  shall  have  a 
hundred  thousand  francs." 

"  Oh  yes,  no  doubt,"  returned  she.  "  People  promise  you 
heaps  of  money,   and  when  they  come   by  their   own,  and 

there  is  talk  of  paying,  they  swindle  you  like "     Like 

Elie  Magus,  she  was  going  to  say,  but  she  stopped  herself 
just  in  time. 

"lam  going,"  said  Fraisier;  "it  is  not  to  your  interest 
that  I  should  be  found  here :  but  I  shall  see  you  again  down- 


stairs." 


La  Cibot  shut  the  door  and  returned  with  the  sealed  packet 
in  her  hand.  She  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  to  burn  it ; 
but  as  she  went  toward  the  bedroom  fireplace,  she  felt  the 
grasp  of  a  hand  on  each  arm,  and  saw — Schmucke  on  one 
hand  and  Pons  himself  on  the  other,  leaning  against  the  par- 
tition wall  on  either  side  of  the  door. 

La  Cibot  cried  out,  and  fell  face  downward  in  a  fit :  real  or 
feigned,  no  one  ever  knew  the  truth.     The  sight  produced 


COUSIN  PONS.  361 

such  an  impression  on  Pons  that  a  deadly  faintness  came  upon 
him,  and  Schmucke  left  the  woman  on  the  floor  to  help  Pons 
back  to  bed.  The  friends  trembled  in  every  limb ;  they  had 
set  themselves  a  hard  task,  it  was  done,  but  it  had  been  too 
much  for  their  strength.  When  Pons  lay  in  bed  again,  and 
Schmucke  had  regained  strength  to  some  extent,  he  heard  a 
sound  of  sobbing.  La  Cibot,  on  her  knees,  bursting  into 
tears,  held  out  supplicating  hands  to  them  in  very  expressive 
pantomine. 

*'It  was  pure  curiosity?"  she  sobbed,  when  she  saw  that 
Pons  and  Schmucke  were  paying  any  attention  to  her  proceed- 
ings. "  Pure  curiosity  ;  a  woman's  fault,  you  know.  But  I  did 
not  know  how  else  to  get  a  sight  of  your  will,  and  I  brought 
it  back  again " 

"Go  !  "  said  Schmucke,  standing  erect,  his  tall  figure  gain- 
ing in  height  by  the  full  extent  of  his  indignation.  "  You 
are  a  monster  !  You  dried  to  kill  mein  goot  Bons  !  He  is 
right.     You  are  worse  than  a  monster,  you  are  a  lost  soul !  " 

La  Cibot  saw  the  look  of  abhorrence  in  the  frank  German's 
face ;  she  rose,  proud  as  Tartuffe,  gave  Schmucke  a  glance 
which  made  him  quake,  and  went  out,  carrying  off  under  her 
dress  an  exquisite  little  picture  of  Metzu's  pointed  out  by 
Elie  Magus.  "A  diamond,"  he  had  called  it.  Fraisier 
downstairs  in  the  porter's  lodge  was  waiting  to  hear  that  La 
Cibot  had  burned  the  envelope  and  the  sheet  of  blank  paper 
inside  it.  Great  was  his  astonishment  when  he  beheld  his  fair 
client's  agitation  and  dismay. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  This  has  happened,  dear  Maitre  Fraisier.  Under  pre- 
tense of  giving  me  f;ood  advice  and  telling  me  what  to  do, 
you  have  lost  me  my  annuity  and  the  gentlemen's  confidence." 

One  of  the  word-tornadoes  in  which  she  excelled  was  in 
full  progress,  but  Fraisier  cut  her  short. 

"This  is  idle  talk.  The  facts,  the  facts!  and  be  quick 
about  it." 


S62  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"  Well ;  it  came  about  in  this  way :  " — and  she  told  him  of 
the  scene  which  she  had  just  come  through. 

"You  have  lost  nothing  through  me,"  was  Fraisier's  com- 
ment. "The  gentlemen  had  their  doubts,  or  they  would  not 
have  set  this  trap  for  you.  They  were  lying  in  wait  and  spy- 
ing upon  you.  You  have  not  told  me  everything,"  he  added, 
with  a  tiger's  glance  at  the  woman  before  him. 

"/ hide  anything  from  you!"  cried  she — "after  all  that 
we  have  done  together  !  "  she  added  with  a  shudder. 

"  ]\Iy  dear  madame,  /  have  done  nothing  blameworthy," 
returned  Fraisier.  Evidently  he  meant  to  deny  his  nocturnal 
visit  to  Pons'  rooms. 

Every  hair  on  La  Cibot's  head  seemed  to  scorch  her,  while 
a  sense  of  icy  coldness  swept  over  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"  IVJiat?'^  she  faltered  in  bewilderment. 

"  Here  is  a  criminal  charge  on  the  face  of  it.  You  may  be 
accused  of  suppressing  the  will,"  Fraisier  made  answer  drily. 

La  Cibot  started. 

"Don't  be  alarmed;  I  am  your  legal  adviser.  I  only 
wished  to  show  you  how  easy  it  is,  in  one  way  or  another,  to 
do  as  I  once  explained  to  you.  Let  us  see,  now ;  what  have 
you  done  that  this  simple  German  should  be  hiding  in  the 
room  ?  ' ' 

"  Nothing  at  all,  unless  it  was  that  scene  the  other  day 
when  I  stood  Monsieur  Pons  out  that  his  eyes  dazzled.  And 
ever  since,  the  two  gentlemen  have  been  as  different  as  can  be. 
So  you  have  brought  all  my  troubles  upon  me ;  I  might  have 
lost  my  influence  with  Monsieur  Pons,  but  I  was  sure  of  the 
German  ;  just  now  he  was  talking  of  marrying  me  or  of  taking 
me  with  him — it  is  all  one." 

The  excuse  was  so  plausible  that  Fraisier  was  fain  to  be 
satisfied  with  it.  "You  need  fear  nothing,"  he  resumed. 
"  I  gave  you  my  word  that  you  shall  have  your  money,  and  I 
shall  keep  my  word.  The  whole  matter,  so  far,  was  up  in 
the  air,  but  now  it  is  as  good  as  bank-bills.     You  shall  have 


COUSIN  PONS.  363 

at  least  twelve  hundred  francs  per  annum.  But,  my  good 
lady,  you  must  act  intelligently  under  my  orders." 

"Yes,  my  dear  Monsieur  Fraisier,"  said  La  Cibot  with 
cringing  servility.     She  was  completely  subdued. 

"Very  good.  Good-by,"  and  Fraisier  went,  taking  the 
dangerous  document  with  him.  He  reached  home  in  great 
spirits.     The  will  was  a  terrible  weapon, 

"  Now,"  thought  he,  ''I  have  a  hold  on  Madame  la  Presi- 
dente  de  Marville  ;  she  nr.ust  keep  her  word  with  me.  If  she 
did  not,  she  would  lose  the  property." 

At  daybreak,  when  Remonencq  had  taken  down  his  shut- 
ters and  left  his  sister  in  charge  of  the  store,  he  came,  after 
his  wont  of  late,  to  inquire  for  his  good  friend  Cibot.  The 
portress  was  contemplating  the  Metzu,*  privately  wondering 
how  a  little  bit  of  painted  wood  could  be  worth  such  a  lot  of 
money. 

"  Aha !  "  said  he,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  "  that  is  the 
one  picture  which  Monsieur  Elie  Magus  regretted ;  with  that 
little  bit  of  a  thing,  he  says,  his  happiness  would  be  com- 
plete." 

"  What  would  he  give  for  it  ?  "  asked  La  Cibot. 

"Why,  if  you  will  promise  to  marry  me  within  a  year  of 
widowhood,  I  will  undertake  to  get  twenty  thousand  francs 
for  it  from  Elie  Magus ;  and  unless  you  marry  me  you  will 
never  get  a  thousand  francs  for  the  picture." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  would  be  obliged  to  give  a  receipt  for  the 
money,  and  then  you  might  have  a  lawsuit  with  the  heirs-at- 
law.  If  you  were  my  wife,  I  myself  should  sell  the  thing  to 
Monsieur  Magus,  and  in  the  way  of  business  it  is  enough  to 
make  an  entry  in  the  day-book,  and  I  should  note  that  Mon- 
sieur Schmucke  sold  it  to  me.  There,  leave  the  panel  with 
me.  If  your  husband  were  to  die  you  might  have  a  lot  of 
bother  over  it,  but  no  one  would  think  it  odd  that  I  should 
*  A  noted  Dutch  painter  of  genre.     Died  1630. 


364  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

have  a  picture  in  the  store.     You  know  me  quite  well.     Be- 
side, I  will  give  you  a  receipt  if  you  like." 

The  covetous  portress  felt  that  she  had  been  caught ;  she 
agreed  to  a  proposal  which  was  to  bind  her  for  the  rest  of  her 
life  to  the  marine-store-dealer. 

''You  are  right,"  said  she,  as  she  locked  the  picture  away 
in  a  chest ;   ''bring  me  the  bit  of  writing." 

Remonencq  beckoned  her  to  the  door. 

"I  can  see,  neighbor,  that  we  shall  not  save  our  poor  dear 
Cibot,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice.  "  Dr.  Poulain  gave  him 
up  yesterday  evening,  and  said  that  he  could  not  last  out  the 
day.  It  is  a  great  misfortune.  But  after  all,  this  was  not  the 
place  for  you.  You  ought  to  be  in  a  fine  curiosity  store  on 
the  Boulevard  des  Capucines.  Do  you  know  that  I  have  made 
nearly  a  hundred  thousand  francs  in  ten  years?  and  if  you 
will  have  as  much  some  day,  I  will  undertake  to  make  a 
handsome  fortune  for  you — as  my  wife.  You  would  be  the 
mistress — my  sister  should  wait  on  you  and  do  the  work  of 
the  house,  and " 

A  heart-rending  moan  from  the  little  tailor  cut  the  tempter 
short ;  the  death-agony  had  begun. 

"Go  away,"  said  La  Cibot.  "You  are  a  monster  to  talk 
of  such  things  and  my  poor  man  dying  like  this " 

"Ah!  it  is  because  I  love  you,"  said  Remonencq;  "I 
could  let  everything  else  go  to  have  you " 

"  If  you  loved  me,  you  would  say  nothing  to  me  just  now," 
returned  she.  And  Remonencq  departed  to  his  store,  sure  of 
marrying  La  Cibot. 

Toward  ten  o'clock  there  was  a  sort  of  commotion  in  the 
street ;  M.  Cibot  was  taking  the  sacrament.  All  the  friends 
of  the  pair,  all  the  porters  and  porters'  wives  in  the  Rue  de 
Normandie  and  neighboring  streets,  had  crowded  into  the 
lodge,  under  tlie  arcliway,  and  stood  on  the  pavement  outside. 
Nobody  so  much  as  noticed  the  arrival  of  M.  Leopold  Han- 
nequin  and  a  brother  lawyer.     Schwab  and  Brunner  reached 


COUSIN  PONS.  3G5 

Pons'  rooms  unseen  by  IMme.  Cibot.  The  notary,  inquiring 
for  Pons,  was  shown  upstairs  by  the  portress  of  a  neighboring 
house.  Brunner  remembered  his  previous  visit  to  the  museum, 
and  went  straight  in  with  his  friend  Schwab. 

Pons  formally  revoked  his  previous  will  and  constituted 
Schmucke  his  universal  legatee.  This  accomplished,  he 
thanked  Schwab  and  Brunner,  and  earnestly  begged  M. 
Leopold  Hannequin  to  protect  Schmucke's  interests.  Tlie 
demands  made  upon  him  by  last  night's  scene  with  La  Cibot, 
and  this  final  settlement  of  his  worldly  affairs,  left  him  so 
faint  and  exhausted  that  Schmucke  begged  Schwab  to  go  for 
the  Abbe  Duplanty;  it  was  Pons'  great  desire  to  take  the 
sacrament,  and  Schmucke  could  not  bring  himself  to  leave 
his  friend. 

La  Cibot,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  her  husband's  bed,  gave  not 
so  much  as  a  thought  to  Schmucke's  breakfast — for  that  matter 
had  been  forbidden  to  return  ;  but  the  morning's  events,  the 
sight  of  Pons'  heroic  resignation  in  the  death-agony,  so  op- 
pressed Schmucke's  heart  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  hunger. 
Toward  two  o'clock,  however,  as  nothing  had  been  seen  of 
the  old  German,  La  Cibot  sent  Remonencq's  sister  to  see 
whether  Schmucke  wanted  anything ;  prompted  not  so  much 
by  interest  as  by  curiosity.  The  Abbe  Duplanty  had  just 
heard  the  old  musician's  dying  confession,  and  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  sacrament  of  extreme  unction  was  disturbed  by 
repeated  ringing  of  the  door-bell.  Pons,  in  his  terror  of 
robbery,  had  made  Schmucke  promise  solemnly  to  admit  no 
one  into  the  house ;  so  Schmucke  did  not  stir.  Again  and 
again  Mile.  Remonencq  pulled  the  cord,  and  finally  went 
downstairs  in  alarm  to  tell  La  Cibot  that  Schmucke  would 
not  open  the  door;  Fraisier  made  a  note  of  this.  Schmucke 
had  never  seen  any  one  die  in  his  life ;  before  long  he  would 
be  perplexed  by  the  many  difficulties  which  beset  those  who 
are  left  with  a  dead  body  in  Paris,  this  more  especially  if  they 
are  lonely  and   helpless  and  have  no  one  to  act  for  them. 


366  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

Fraisier  knew,  moreover,  that  in  real  affliction  people  lose 
their  heads,  and  therefore  immediately  after  breakfast  he  took 
up  his  position  in  the  porter's  lodge,  and,  sitting  there  in 
perpetual  committee  with  Dr.  Poulain,  conceived  the  idea  of 
directing  all  Schmucke's  actions  himself. 

To  obtain  the  important  result,  the  doctor  and  the  lawyer 
took  their  measures  on  this  wise  : 

The  beadle  of  Saint-Francois,  Cantinet  by  name,  at  one  time 
a  retail  dealer  in  glassware,  lived  in  the  Rue  d' Orleans,  next 
door  to  Dr.  Poulain  and  under  the  same  roof.  Mme.  Canti- 
net, who  saw  to  the  letting  of  the  chairs  at  Saint-Francois, 
once  had  fallen  ill  and  Dr.  Poulain  had  attended  her  gratu- 
itously; she  was,  as  might  be  expected,  grateful,  and  often 
confided  her  troubles  to  him.  The  "nutcrackers,"  punctual 
in  their  attendance  at  Saint-Francois  on  Sundays  and  saints'- 
days,  were  on  friendly  terms  with  the  beadle  and  the  lowest 
ecclesiastical  rank  and  file,  commonly  called  in  Paris  le  bas 
clerge,  to  whom  the  devout  usually  gave  little  presents  from 
time  to  time.  Mme.  Cantinet,  therefore,  knew  Schmucke 
almost  as  well  as  Schmucke  knew  her.  And  Mme.  Cantinet 
was  afflicted  with  two  sore  troubles  which  enabled  the  lawj'^er 
to  use  her  as  a  blind  and  involuntary  agent.  Cantinet  junior, 
a  stage-struck  youth,  had  deserted  the  paths  of  the  church  and 
turned  his  back  on  the  prospect  of  one  day  becoming  a  beadle, 
to  make  his  debut  among  the  supernumeraries  of  the  Cirque- 
Olympique;  he  was  leading  a  wild  life,  breaking  his  mother's 
heart  and  draining  her  purse  by  frequent  forced  loans.  Cantinet 
senior,  much  addicted  to  spirituous  liquors  and  idleness,  had, 
in  fact,  been  driven  to  retire  from  business  by  those  two  fail- 
ings. So  far  from  reforming,  the  incorrigible  offender  had 
found  scope  in  his  new  occupation  for  the  indulgence  of  both 
cravings;  he  did  nothing,  and  he  drank  with  drivers  of  wed- 
ding-coaches, with  the  undertaker's  men  at  funerals,  with 
poor  folk  relieved  by  the  vicar,  till  his  morning's  occupation 
was  set  forth  in  rubric  on  his  countenance  by  noon. 


COUSIN  PONS,  367 

Mme.  Cantinet  saw  no  prospect  but  want  in  her  old  age,  and 
yet  she  had  brought  her  husband  twelve  thousand  francs,  she 
said.  The  tale  of  her  woes,  related  for  the  hundredth  time, 
suggested  an  idea  to  Dr.  Poulain.  Once  introduce  her  into 
the  old  bachelors'  quarters,  and  it  would  be  easy  by  her  means 
to  establish  Mme.  Sauvage  there  as  working  housekeeper.  It 
was  quite  impossible  to  present  Mme.  Sauvage  herself,  for 
the  "nutcrackers"  had  grown  suspicious  of  every  one. 
Schmucke's  refusal  to  admit  Mile.  Remonencq  had  sufficiently 
opened  Fraisier's  eyes.  Still,  it  seemed  evident  that  Pons  and 
Schmucke,  being  pious  souls,  would  take  any  one  recom- 
mended by  the  abbe,  with  blind  confidence.  Mme.  Can- 
tinet should  bring  Mme.  Sauvage  with  her,  and  to  put  in 
Fraisier's  servant  was  almost  tantamount  to  installing  Fraisier 
himself. 

The  Abbe  Duplanty,  coming  downstairs,  found  the  gateway 
blocked  by  the  Cibots'  friends,  all  of  them  bent  upon  showing 
their  interest  in  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  respectable  porters 
in  the  Marais. 

Dr.  Poulain  raised  his  hat,  and  took  the  abbe  aside. 

"I  am  just  about  to  go  to  poor  Monsieur  Pons,"  he  said. 
*'  There  is  still  a  chance  of  recovery ;  but  it  is  a  question  of 
inducing  him  to  undergo  an  operation.  The  calculi  are  per- 
ceptible to  the  touch,  they  are  setting  up  an  inflammatory 
condition  which  will  end  fatally,  but  perhaps  it  is  not  too 
late  to  remove  them.  You  should  really  use  your  influence  to 
persuade  the  patient  to  submit  to  surgical  treatment ;  I  will 
answer  for  his  life,  provided  that  no  untoward  circumstance 
occurs  during  the  operation." 

"  I  will  return  as  soon  as  I  have  taken  the  sacred  ciborium 
back  to  the  church,"  said  the  Abbe  Duplanty,  "  for  Monsieur 
Schmucke's  condition  claims  the  support  of  religion." 

"I  have  just  heard  that  he  is  alone,"  said  Dr.  Poulain. 
"  The  German,  good  soul,  had  a  little  altercation  this  morn- 
ing with  Madame  Cibot,  who  has  acted  as  housekeeper  to 


368  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

them  both  for  the  past  ten  years.  They  have  quarreled  (for 
the  moment  only,  no  doubt),  but  under  the  circumstances 
they  must  have  some  one  in  to  help  upstairs.  It  would  be  a 
charity  to  look  after  him.  I  say,  Cantinet,"  continued  the 
doctor,  beckoning  to  the  beadle,  "just  go  and  ask  your  wife 
if  she  will  nurse  Monsieur  Pons,  and  look  after  Monsieur 
Schmucke,  and  take  Madame  Cibot's  place  for  a  day  or  two. 
Even  without  the  quarrel,  Madame  Cibot  would  still  require  a 
substitute.  Madame  Cantinet  is  honest?"  added  the  doctor, 
turning  to  M.  Duplanty. 

"You  could  not  make  a  better  choice,"  said  the  good 
priest;  "she  is  intrusted  with  the  letting  of  chairs  in  the 
church." 

A  few  minutes  later.  Dr.  Poulain  stood  by  Pons'  pillow 
watching  the  progress  made  by  death,  and  Schmucke's  vain 
efforts  to  persuade  his  friend  to  consent  to  the  operation.  To 
all  the  poor  German's  despairing  entreaties  Pons  only  replied 
by  a  shake  of  the  head  and  occasional  impatient  movements  ; 
till,  after  a  while,  he  summoned  up  all  his  fast-failing  strength 
to  say,  with  a  heart-rending  look  : 

"  Do  let  me  die  in  peace  !  " 

Schmucke  almost  died  of  sorrow,  but  he  took  Pons'  hand 
and  softly  kissed  it,  and  held  it  between  his  own,  as  if  trying 
a  second  time  to  give  his  own  vitality  to  his  friend. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  bell  rang,  and  Dr.  Poulain,  going 
to  the  door,  admitted  the  Abbe  Duplanty. 

"Our  poor  patient  is  struggling  in  the  grasp  of  death,"  he 
said.  "All  will  be  over  in  a  few  hours.  You  will  send  a 
priest,  no  doubt,  to  watch  to-night.  But  it  is  time  that 
Madame  Cantinet  came,  as  well  as  a  woman  to  do  the  work, 
for  Monsieur  Schmucke  is  quite  unfit  to  think  of  anything :  I 
am  afraid  for  his  reason  ;  and  there  are  valuables  here  which 
ought  to  be  in  the  custody  of  honest  persons." 

The  Abbe  Duplanty,  a  kindly,  upright  priest,  guileless  and 
unsuspicious,  was  struck  with  the  truth  of  Dr.  Poulain's  re- 


COUSIN  PONS.  369 

marks.  He  had,  moreover,  a  certain  belief  in  the  doctor  of 
the  quarter.  So  on  the  threshold  of  the  death-chamber  he 
stopped  and  beckoned  to  Schmucke,  but  Schmucke  could  not 
bring  himself  to  loosen  the  grasp  of  the  hand  that  grew  tighter 
and  tighter.  Pons  seemed  to  think  that  he  was  slipping  over 
the  edge  of  a  precipice  and  must  catch  at  something  to  save 
himself.  But,  as  many  know,  the  dying  are  haunted  by  a 
hallucination  that  leads  them  to  snatch  at  things  about  them, 
like  men  eager  to  save  their  most  precious  possessions  f.om  a 
fire.  Presently  Pons  released  Schmucke  to  clutch  at  the  bed- 
clothes, dragging  them  and  huddling  them  about  himself 
with  a  hasty,  covetous  movement  significant  and  painful  to 
see. 

"What  will  you  do,  left  alone  with  your  dead  friend?" 
asked  M.  I'Abbe  Duplanty  when  Schmucke  came  to  the  door. 
"You  have  not  Madame  Cibot  now " 

"  Ein  monster  dat  haf  killed  Bons  !  " 

"But  you  must  have  somebody  with  you,"  began  Dr.  Pou- 
lain.     "  Some  one  must  sit  up  with  the  body  to-night." 

"  I  shall  sit  up;  I  shall  say  die  prayers  to  Gott,"  the  inno- 
cent German  answered. 

"But  you  must  eat — and  who  is  to  cook  for  you  now  ?  " 
asked  the  doctor. 

"Grief  haf  taken  afay  mein  abbetite,"  Schmucke  said, 
simply. 

"And  some  one  must  give  notice  to  the  registrar,"  said 
Poulain,  "and  lay  out  the  body,  and  order  the  funeral ;  and 
the  person  who  sits  up  with  the  body  and  the  priest  will  want 
meals.  Can  you  do  all  this  by  yourself?  A  man  cannot  die 
like  a  dog  in  the  capital  of  the  civilized  world." 

Schmucke  opened  wide  eyes  of  dismay.  A  brief  fit  of  mad- 
ness seized  him. 

"  But  Bons  shall  not  tie  !  "  he  cried  aloud.  "  I  shall  safe 
him!" 

"  You  cannot  go  without  sleep  much  longer,  and  who  will 
24 


370  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

take  your  place  ?     Some  one  must  look  after  Monsieur  Pons, 
and  give  him  drink,  and  nurse  him " 

"  Ah  !  dat  is  drue." 

''Very  well,"  said  the  abbe,  "I  am  thinking  of  sending 
you  Madame  Cantinet,  a  good  and  honest  creature " 

The  practical  details  of  the  care  of  the  dead  bewildered 
Schmucke,  till  he  was  fain  to  die  with  his  friend. 

"He  is  a  child,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  to  the  Abbe 
Duplanty. 

"  Ein  child,"  Schmucke  repeated  mechanically. 

"There,  then,"  said  the  curate;  "  I  will  speak  to  Madame 
Cantinet,  and  send  her  to  you." 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself,"  said  the  doctor;  "  I  am  going 
home,  and  she  lives  in  the  next  house." 

The  dying  seem  to  struggle  with  Death  as  with  an  invisible 
assassin  ;  in  the  agony  at  the  last,  as  the  final  thrust  is  made, 
the  act  of  dying  seems  to  be  a  conflict,  a  hand-to-hand  fight 
for  life.  Pons  had  reached  the  supreme  moment.  At  the 
sound  of  his  groans  and  cries,  the  three  standing  in  the  door- 
way hurried  to  the  bedside.  Then  came  the  last  blow,  smiting 
asunder  the  bonds  between  soul  and  body,  striking  down  to 
life's  sources ;  and  suddenly  Pons  regained  for  a  few  brief 
moments  the  perfect  calm  that  follows  the  struggle.  He 
came  to  himself,  and  with  the  serenity  of  death  in  his  face  he 
looked  round  almost  smilingly  at  them. 

"Ah,  doctor,  I  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it;  but  you  were 
right,  I  am  doing  better.  Thank  you,  my  good  abbe ;  I  was 
wondering  what  had  become  of  Schmucke " 

"  Schmucke  has  had  nothing  to  eat  since  yesterday  evening, 
and  now  it  is  four  o'clock  !  You  have  n"o  one  with  you  now, 
and  it  would  not  be  wise  to  send  for  Madame  Cibot." 

"  She  is  capable  of  anything  !  "  said  Pons,  without  attempt- 
ing to  conceal  all  his  abhorrence  at  the  sound  of  her  name. 
"  It  is  true,  Schmucke  certainly  ought  to  have  some  trustworthy 
person." 


COUSIN  PONS.  371 

"  Monsieur  Duplanty  and  I  have  been  thinking  about  you 
both " 

"Ah!  thank  you,  I  had  not  thought  of  that." 

"  — and  Monsieur  Duplanty  suggests  that  you  should  have 
Madame  Cantinet " 

"Oh  !  Madame  Cantinet  who  lets  the  chairs  !  "  exclaimed 
Pons.      "  Yes;  she  is  an  excellent  creature." 

"She  has  no  liking  for  Madame  Cibot,"  continued  the 
doctor,  "  and  she  would  take  good  care  of  Monsieur  Schmucke 
who " 

"  Send  her  to  me,  Monsieur  Duplanty send  her  and  her 

husband  too.     I  shall  be  easy.     Nothing  will  be  stolen  here." 

Schmucke  had  taken  Pons'  hand  again,  and  held  it  joyously 
in  his  own.     Pons  was  almost  well  again,  he  thought. 

"Let  us  go,  Monsieur  I'Abbe,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  will 
send  Madame  Cantinet  round  at  once.  I  see  how  it  is.  She 
perhaps  may  not  find  Monsieur  Pons  alive." 

While  the  Abbe  Duplanty  was  persuading  Pons  to  engage 
Madame  Cantinet  as  his  nurse,  Fraisier  had  sent  for  her.  He 
had  plied  the  beadle's  wife  with  sophistical  reasoning  and 
subtlety.  It  was  difficult  to  resist  his  corrupting  influence. 
As  for  Madame  Cantinet — a  lean,  sallow  woman,  with  large 
teeth  and  thin  lips — her  intelligence,  as  so  often  happens  with 
women  of  the  people,  had  been  blunted  by  a  hard  life,  till  she 
had  come  to  look  upon  the  slenderest  daily  wage  as  prosperity. 
She  soon  consented  to  take  Mme.  Sauvage  with  her  as  general 
servant. 

Mme.  Sauvage  had  had  her  instructions  already.  She  had 
undertaken  to  weave  a  web  of  iron-wire  about  the  two  musi- 
cians, and  to  watch  them  as  a  spider  watches  a  fly  caught  in 
the  toils ;  and  her  reward  was  to  be  a  tobacconist's  license. 
Fraisier  had  found  a  convenient  opportunity  of  getting  rid  of 
his  so-called  foster-mother,  while  he  posted  her  as  a  detective 
and  policeman  to  supervise  Madame  Cantinet.     As  there  was 


372  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

a  servant's  bedroom  and  a  little  kitchen  included  in  the  apart- 
ments, La  Sauvage  could  sleep  on  a  truckle-bed  and  cook  for 
the  German.  Dr.  Poulain  came  with  the  two  women  just  as 
Pons  drew  his  last  breath.  Schraucke  was  sitting  beside  his 
friend,  all  unconscious  of  the  crisis,  holding  the  hand  that 
slowly  grew  colder  in  his  grasp.  He  signed  to  Madame  Can- 
tinet  to  be  silent ;  but  Mme.  Sauvage's  soldierly  figure  sur- 
prised him  so  much  that  he  started  in  spite  of  liimself,  a  kind 
of  homage  to  which  the  virago  was  quite  accustomed. 

"Monsieur  Duplanty  answers  for  this  lady,"  whispered 
Mme.  Cantinet  by  way  of  introduction.  "  She  once  was  cook 
to  a  bishop;  she  is  honesty  itself;  she  will  do  the  cooking." 

"Oh  !  you  may  talk  out  loud,"  wheezed  the  stalwart  dame. 
"  The  poor  gentleman  is  dead.     He  has  just  gone." 

A  shrill  cry  broke  from  Schmucke.  He  felt  Pons'  cold 
hand  stiffening  in  his,  and  sat  staring  into  his  friend's  eyes; 
the  look  in  them  would  have  driven  him  mad,  if  Mme. 
Sauvage,  doubtless  accustomed  to  scenes  of  this  sort,  had  not 
come  to  the  bedside  with  a  mirror  which  she  held  over  the 
lips  of  the  dead.  When  she  saw  that  there  was  no  mist  upon 
the  surface,  she  briskly  snatched  Schmucke's  hand  away. 

"Just  take  away  your  hand,  sir ;  you  may  not  be  able  to  do 
it  in  a  little  while.  You  do  not  know  how  the  bones  harden. 
A  corpse  grows  cold  very  quickly.  If  you  do  not  lay  out  a 
body  while  it  is  warm,  you  very  often  have  to  break  the  joints 
later  on." 

And  so  it  was  this  terrible  woman  who  closed  the  poor 
dead  musician's  eyes. 

With  a  business-like  dexterity  acquired  in  ten  years  of  ex- 
perience, she  stripped  and  straightened  the  body,  laid  the 
arms  by  the  sides,  and  covered  the  face  with  the  bedclothes, 
exactly  as  a  clerk  wraps  a  parcel. 

"A  sheet  will  be  wanted  to  lay  him  out.  Where  is  there 
a  sheet?"  she  demanded,  turning  on  the  terror-stricken 
Schmucke. 


COUSIN  PONS.  373 

He  had  watched  the  religious  ritual  with  its  deep  reverence 
for  the  creature  made  for  such  high  destinies  in  heaven  ;  and 
now  he  saw  his  dead  friend  treated  simply  as  a  thing  in  this 
packing  process — saw  with  the  sharp  pain  that  dissolves  the 
very  elements  of  thought. 

"Do  as  you  vill "  he  answered  mechanically.  The  in- 
nocent creature  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  had  seen  a  man 
die,  and  that  man  was  Pons,  his  only  friend,  the  one  human 
being  who  understood  him  and  loved  him, 

"  I  will  go  and  ask  Madame  Cibot  where  the  sheets  are 
kept,"  said  La  Sauvage, 

"A  truckle-bed  will  be  wanted  for  the  person  to  sleep 
upon,"  Mme.  Cantinet  came  to  tell  Schmucke. 

Schmucke  nodded  and  broke  out  into  weeping.  Mme. 
Cantinet  left  the  unhappy  man  in  peace ;  but  an  hour  later 
she  came  back  to  say — 

"  Have  you  any  money,  sir,  to  pay  for  the  things  ?  " 

The  look  that  Schmucke  gave  Mme.  Cantinet  would  have 
disarmed  the  fiercest  hate ;  it  was  the  white,  blank,  peaked 
face  of  death  that  he  turned  upon  her,  as  an  explanation 
that  met  everything. 

"  Dake  it  all  and  leaf  me  to  mein  prayers  and  tears,"  he 
said,  and  knelt, 

Mme.  Sauvage  went  to  Fraisier  with  the  news  of  Pons' 
death.  Fraisier  took  a  hack  and  went  to  the  presidente. 
To-morrow  she  must  give  him  the  power  of  attorney  to  en- 
able him  to  act  for  the  heirs. 

Another  hour  went  by,  and  Mme.  Cantinet  came  again  to 
Schmucke. 

"  I  have  been  to  Madame  Cibot,  sir,  who  knows  all  about 
things  here,"  she  said.  "  I  asked  her  to  tell  me  where  every- 
thing is  kept.  But  she  almost  jawed  me  to  death  with  her 
abuse.     Sir,  do  listen  to  me." 

Schmucke  looked  up  at  the  woman,  and  she  went  on,  inno- 
cent of  any  barbarous  intention,  for  women  of  her  class  are 


374  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

accustomed  to  take  the  worst  of  moral  suffering  passively,  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

"  We  must  have  linen  for  the  shroud,  sir ;  we  must  have 
money  to  buy  a  truckle-bed  for  the  person  to  sleep  upon,  and 
some  things  for  the  kitchen — plates,  and  dishes,  and  glasses — 
for  a  priest  will  be  coming  to  pass  the  night  here,  and  the 
person  says  that  there  is  absolutely  nothing  in  the  kitchen." 

"  And  what  is  more,  sir,  I  must  have  coal  and  firing  if  I  am 
to  get  the  dinner  ready,"  echoed  La  Sauvage,  "and  not  a 
thing  can  I  find.  Not  that  there  is  anything  so  very  surpris- 
ing in  that,  as  La  Cibot  used  to  do  everything  for  you " 

Schmucke  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  dead ;  he  heard  nothing, 
knew  nothing,  saw  nothing.  Mme.  Cantinet  pointed  to  him. 
"My  dear  woman,  you  would  not  believe  me,"  she  said. 
"Whatever  you  say,  he  does  not  answer." 

"Very  well,  child,"  said  La  Sauvage;  "now  I  will  show 
you  what  to  do  in  a  case  of  this  kind." 

She  looked  round  the  room  as  a  thief  looks  in  search  of 
possible  hiding-places  for  money ;  then  she  went  straight  to 
Pons'  chest,  opened  the  first  drawer,  saw  the  bag  in  which 
Schmucke  had  put  the  rest  of  the  money  after  the  sale  of  the 
pictures,  and  held  it  up  before  him.  He  nodded  mechan- 
ically. 

"Here  is  money,  child,"  said  La  Sauvage,  turning  to 
Mme.  Cantinet.  "  I  will  count  it  first  and  take  enough  to 
buy  everything  we  want — wine,  provisions,  wax-candles,  all 
sorts  of  things,  in  fact,  for  there  is  nothing  in  the  house. 
Just  look  in  the  drawers  for  a  sheet  to  bury  him  in.  I  cer- 
tainly was  told  that  the  poor  gentleman  was  simple,  but  I 
don't  know  what  he  is;  he  is  worse.  He  is  like  a  new-born 
child  ;  we  shall  have  to  feed  him  with  a  funnel." 

The  women  went  about  their  work,  and  Schmucke  looked 
on  precisely  as  an  idiot  might  have  done.  Broken  down  with 
sorrow,  wholly  absorbed,  in  a  half-cataleptic  state,  he  could 
not    take    his  eyes   from  the   face   that  seemed    to   fascinate 


COUSIN  PONS.  376 

him,  Pons'  face  refined  by  the  absolute  repose  of  death. 
Schmucke  hoped  to  die ;  everything  was  alike  indifferent. 
If  the  room  had  been  on  fire  he  would  not  have  stirred. 

''There  are  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  francs  here,"  La 
Sauvage  told  him. 

Schmucke  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

But  when  La  Sauvage  came  near  to  measure  the  body  by 
laying  the  sheet  over  it,  before  cutting  out  the  shroud,  a  hor- 
rible struggle  ensued  between  her  and  the  poor  German. 
Schmucke  was  furious.  He  behaved  like  a  dog  that  watches 
by  his  dead  master's  body,  and  shows  his  teeth  at  all  who  try 
to  touch  it.  La  Sauvage  grew  impatient.  She  grasped  him, 
set  him  in  the  armchair,  and  held  him  down  with  herculean 
strength. 

"  Go  on,  child;  sew  him  in  his  shroud,"  she  said,  turning 
to  Mme.  Cantinet. 

As  soon  as  this  operation  was  completed.  La  Sauvage  set 
Schmucke  back  in  his  place  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  Do  you  understand?"  said  she.  "  The  poor  dead  man 
lying  there  must  be  done  up,  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

Schmucke  began  to  cry.  The  women  left  him  and  took 
possession  of  the  kitchen,  whither  they  brought  all  the  neces- 
saries in  a  very  short  time.  La  Sauvage  made  out  a  prelimi- 
nary statement  accounting  for  three  hundred  and  sixty  francs, 
and  then  proceeded  to  prepare  a  dinner  for  four  persons. 
And  what  a  dinner  !  A  fat  goose  (the  cobbler's  pheasant)  by 
way  of  a  substantial  roast,  an  omelette  with  preserves,  a  salad, 
and  the  inevitable  soup — the  quantities  of  the  ingredients  for 
this  last  being  so  excessive  that  the  soup  was  more  like  a 
strong  meat-jelly. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  priest,  sent  by  the  curate  to  watch  by 
the  dead,  came  in  with  Cantinet,  who  brought  four  tall  wax- 
candles  and  some  tapers.  In  the  death-chamber  Schmucke 
was  lying  with  his  arms  about  the  body  of  his  friend,  holding 
him  in  a  tight  clasp;   nothing  but  the  authority  of  religion 


376  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

availed  to  separate  him  from  his  dead.  Then  the  priest  settled 
himself  comfortably  in  the  easy-chair  and  read  his  prayers ; 
while  Schmucke,  kneeling  beside  the  couch,  besought  God  to 
work  a  miracle  and  unite  him  to  Pons,  so  that  they  might  be 
buried  in  the  same  grave  \  and  Mme.  Cantinet  went  on  her 
way  to  the  Temple  to  buy  a  pallet  and  complete  bedding  for 
Mme.  Sauvage.  The  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  francs  were 
regarded  as  plunder.  At  eleven  o'clock  Mme.  Cantinet  came 
in  to  ask  if  Schmucke  would  not  eat  a  morsel,  but  with  a 
gesture  he  signified  that  he  wished  to  be  left  in  peace. 

"Your  supper  is  ready,  Monsieur  Pastelot,"  she  said, 
addressing  the  priest,  and  they  went. 

Schmucke,  left  alone  in  the  room,  smiled  to  himself  like  a 
madman  free  at  last  to  gratify  a  desire  like  the  longing  of 
pregnancy.  He  flung  himself  down  beside  Pons,  and  yet  again 
he  held  his  friend  in  a  long,  close  embrace.  At  midnight  the 
priest  came  back  and  scolded  him,  and  Schmucke  returned  to 
his  prayers.  At  daybreak  the  priest  went,  and  at  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning  the  doctor  came  to  see  Schmucke,  and  spoke 
kindly  and  tried  hard  to  persuade  him  to  eat,  but  the  German 
refused. 

"  If  you  do  not  eat  now  you  will  feel  very  hungry  when  you 
come  back,"  the  doctor  told  him,  "for  you  must  go  to  the 
mayor's  office  and  take  a  witness  with  you,  so  that  the  registrar 
may  issue  a  certificate  of  death." 

"/  must  go  !"  cried  Schmucke  in  frightened  tones. 

"Who  else?  You  must  go,  for  you  were  the  one  person 
who  saw  him  die." 

"Mein  legs  vill  nicht  carry  me,"  pleaded  Schmucke,  im.- 
ploring  the  doctor  to  come  to  the  rescue.  • 

"  Take  a  coach,"  the  hypocritical  doctor  blandly  suggested. 
"I  have  given  notice  already.  Ask  some  one  in  the  house  to 
go  with  you.  The  two  women  will  look  after  the  place  while 
you  are  away." 

No  one  imagines  how  the  requirements  of  the  law  jar  upon 


COUSIN  PONS.  2,11 

a  heartfelt  sorrow.  The  thought  of  it  is  enough  to  make  one 
turn  from  civilization  and  choose  rather  the  customs  of  the 
savage.  At  nine  o'clock  that  morning  Mme.  Sauvage  half- 
carried  Schmucke  downstairs,  and  from  the  hack  he  was  obliged 
to  beg  Remonencq  to  come  with  him  to  the  registrar  as  a 
second  witness.  Here  in  Paris,  in  tliis  land  of  ours  besotted 
with  Equality,  the  inequality  of  conditions  is  glaringly  apparent 
everywhere  and  in  everything.  The  immutable  tendency  of 
things  peeps  out  even  in  the  practical  aspects  of  death.  In 
well-to-do  families,  a  relative,  a  friend,  or  a  man  of  business 
spares  the  mourners  these  painful  details ;  but  in  this,  as  in  the 
matter  of  taxation,  the  whole  burden  falls  heaviest  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  poor. 

"Ah  !  you  have  good  reason  to  regret  him,"  said  Remon- 
encq in  answer  to  the  poor  martyr's  moan;  "he  was  a  very 
good,  a  very  honest  man,  and  he  has  left  a  fine  collection 
behind  him.  But  being  a  foreigner,  sir,  do  you  know  that 
you  are  like  to  find  yourself  in  a  great  predicament — for  every- 
body says  that  Monsieur  Pons  left  everything  to  you?  " 

Schmucke  was  not  listening.  He  was  sounding  the  dark 
depths  of  sorrow  that  border  upon  madness.  There  is  such  a 
thing  as  tetanus  of  the  soul. 

"And  you  would  do  well  to  find  some  one — some  man 
of  business — to  advise  you  and  act  for  you,"  pursued  Re- 
monencq. 

"  Ein  mann  of  pizness  !  "  echoed  Schmucke. 

"You  will  find  that  you  will  want  some  one  to  act  for  you. 
If  I  were  you,  I  should  take  an  experienced  man,  somebody 
well  known  in  the  quarter,  a  man  you  can  trust.  I  always  go 
to  Tabareau  myself  for  my  bits  of  affairs — he  is  the  bailiff.  If 
you  give  his  clerk  power  to  act  for  you,  you  need  not  trouble 
yourself  any  further." 

Remonencq  and  La  Cibot,  prompted  by  Fraisier,  had  agreed 
beforehand  to  make  a  suggestion  which  stuck  in  Schmucke's 
memory ;  for  there  are  times  in  our  lives  when  grief,  as  it  were. 


378  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

congeals  the  mind  by  arresting  all  its  functions,  and  any 
chance  impression  made  at  such  moments  is  retained  by  a 
frost-bound  memory.  Schmucke  heard  his  companion  with 
such  a  fixed,  mindless  stare,  that  Remonencq  said  no  more. 

"If  he  is  always  to  be  idiotic  like  this,"  thought  Remon- 
encq, "  I  might  easily  buy  the  whole  bag  of  tricks  up  yonder 
for  a  hundred  thousand  francs  ;  if  it  is  really  his.  Here  we 
are  at  the  mayor's  office,  sir." 

Remonencq  was  obliged  to  take  Schmucke  out  of  the  coach 
and  to  half-carry  him  to  the  registrar's  department,  where  a 
wedding-party  was  assembled.  Here  they  had  to  wait  for 
their  turn,  for,  by  no  very  uncommon  chance,  the  clerk  had 
five  or  six  certificates  to  make  out  that  morning;  and  here  it 
was  appointed  that  poor  Schmucke  should  suffer  excruciating 
anguish. 

"  Monsieur  is  Monsieur  Schmucke?"  remarked  a  person  in 
a  suit  of  black,  reducing  Schmucke  to  stupefaction  by  the 
mention  of  his  name.  He  looked  up  with  the  same  blank, 
unseeing  eyes  that  he  had  turned  upon  Remonencq,  who  now 
interposed. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  him  ?  "  he  said.  "  Just  leave  him 
in  peace;  you  can  see  plainly  that  he  is  in  trouble." 

"  The  gentleman  has  just  lost  his  friend,  and  proposes,  no 
doubt,  to  do  honor  to  his  memory,  being,  as  he  is,  the  sole 
heir.  The  gentleman,  no  doubt,  will  not  haggle  over  it ;  he 
will  buy  a  piece  of  ground  outright  for  a  grave.  And  as  Mon- 
sieur Pons  was  such  a  lover  of  the  arts,  it  would  be  a  great 
pity  not  to  put  Music,  Painting,  and  Sculpture  on  his  tomb — 
three  handsome  full-length  figures,  weeping " 

Remonencq  waved  the  speaker  away,  in  Aaivergnat  fashion, 
but  the  man  replied  with  another  gesture,  which,  being  inter- 
preted, means  "Don't  spoil  sport;"  a  piece  of  commercial 
freemasonry,  as  it  were,  which  the  dealer  understood. 

"I  represent  the  firm  of  Sonet  &  Company,  monumental 
stonemasons ;  Sir  Walter  Scott  would  have  dubbed  me  Young 


COUSIN  PONS.  379 

Mortality,"  continued  this  person.  "  If  you,  sir,  sliould  de- 
cide to  intrust  your  orders  to  us,  we  would  spare  you  the 
trouble  of  the  journey  to  purchase  the  ground  necessary  for 
the  interment  of  a  friend  lost  to  the  arts " 

At  this  Remonencq  nodded  assent,  and  jogged  Schmucke's 
elbow. 

"  Every  day  we  receive  orders  from  families  to  arrange  all 
formalities,"  continued  he  of  the  black  coat,  thus  encouraged 
by  Remonencq.  "In  the  first  moment  of  bereavement,  the 
heir-at-law  finds  it  very  difficult  to  attend  to  such  matters,  and 
we  are  accustomed  to  perform  these  little  services  for  our  cli- 
ents. Our  charges,  sir,  are  on  a  fixed  scale,  so  much  per 
foot,  freestone  or  marble.  Family  vaults  a  specialty.  We 
undertake  everything  at  the  most  moderate  prices.  Our  firm 
executed  the  magnificent  monument  erected  to  the  fair  Esther 
Gobseck  and  Lucien  de  Rubempre,  one  of  the  finest  orna- 
ments of  Pere-Lachaise.  We  only  employ  the  best  workmen, 
and  I  must  warn  you,  sir,  against  small  contractors — who  turn 
out  nothing  but  trash,"  he  added,  seeing  that  another  person 
in  a  black  suit  was  coming  up  to  say  a  word  for  another  firm 
of  marble-workers. 

It  is  often  said  that  "death  is  the  end  of  a  journey,"  but 
the  aptness  of  the  simile  is  realized  most  fully  in  Paris.  Any 
arrival,  especially  of  a  person  of  condition,  upon  the  "dark 
brink,"  is  hailed  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  traveler  recently 
landed  is  hailed  by  hotel  touts  and  pestered  with  their  recom- 
mendations. With  the  exception  of  a  few  philosophically 
minded  persons,  or  here  and  there  a  family  secure  of  handing 
down  a  name  to  posterity,  nobody  thinks  beforehand  of  the 
practical  aspects  of  death.  Death  always  comes  before  he  is 
expected  ;  and,  from  a  sentiment  easy  to  understand,  the  heirs 
usually  act  as  if  the  event  were  impossible.  For  which  reason, 
almost  every  one  that  loses  father  or  mother,  wife  or  child,  is 
immediately  beset  by  scouts  that  profit  by  the  confusion  caused 
by  grief  to  snare  orders.     In  former  days,  agents  for  monu- 


380  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

ments  used  to  live  round  about  the  famous  cemetery  of  Pere- 
Lachaise,  and  were  gathered  together  in  a  single  thoroughfare 
which  should  by  rights  have  been  called  the  Street  of  Tombs ; 
issuing  thence,  they  fell  upon  the  relatives  of  the  dead  as  they 
came  from  the  cemetery,  or  even  at  the  grave-side.  But  com- 
petition and  the  spirit  of  speculation  induced  them  to  spread 
themselves  farther  and  farther  afield,  till  descending  into  Paris 
itself  they  reached  the  very  precincts  of  the  mayor's  office. 
Indeed,  the  stonemason's  agent  has  often  been  known  to 
invade  the  house  of  mourning  with  a  design  for  the  sepulchre 
in  his  hand. 

"I  am  in  treaty  with  this  gentleman,"  said  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  firm  of  Sonet  to  another  agent  who  came 
up. 

"Pons  deceased! "  called  the  clerk  at  this  moment. 

"  Where  are  the  witnesses  ?  " 

"This  way,  sir,"  said  the  stonemason's  agent,  this  time 
addressing  Remonencq. 

Schmucke  stayed  where  he  had  been  placed  on  the  bench, 
an  inert  mass,  Remonencq  begged  the  agent  to  help  him, 
and  together  they  pulled  Schmucke  toward  the  balustrade, 
behind  which  the  registrar  shelters  himself  from  the  mourn- 
ing public.  Remonencq,  Schmucke's  Providence,  was  assisted 
by  Dr.  Poulain,  who  filled  in  the  necessary  information  as  to 
Pons'  age  and  birthplace ;  the  German  knew  but  one  thing — 
that  Pons  was  his  friend.  So  soon  as  the  signatures  were 
affixed,  Remonencq  and  the  doctor  (followed  by  the  stone- 
mason's man),  put  Schmucke  into  a  coach,  the  desperate  agent 
whisking  in  afterward,  bent  upon  taking  a  definite  order. 

La  Sauvage,  on  the  lookout  in  the  gateway,  half-carried 
Schmucke's  almost  unconscious  form  upstairs.  Remonencq 
and  the  agent  went  up  with  her. 

"  He  will  be  ill  !  "  exclaimed  the  agent,  anxious  to  make 
an  end  of  the  piece  of  business  which,  according  to  him,  was 
in  progress. 


COUSIN  PONS.  381 

"  I  should  think  he  will  !  "  returned  Mme.  Sauvage.  "  He 
has  been  crying  for  twenty-fours  on  end,  and  he  would  not  take 
anything.  There  is  nothing  like  grief  for  giving  one  a  sinking 
in  the  stomach." 

"My  dear  client,"  urged  the  representative  of  the  firm  of 
Sonet,  "do  take  some  broth.  You  have  so  much  to  do; 
some  one  must  go  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  to  buy  the  ground  in 
the  cemetery  on  which  you  mean  to  erect  a  monument  to  per- 
petuate the  memory  of  the  friend  of  the  arts,  and  bear  record 
to  your  gratitude." 

"Why,  there  is  no  sense  in  this!"  added  Mme.  Cantinet, 
coming  in  with  broth  and  bread. 

"  If  you  are  as  weak  as  this,  you  ought  to  think  of  finding 
some  one  to  act  for  you,"  added  Remonencq,  '•  for  you  have  a 
good  deal  on  your  hands,  my  dear  sir.  There  is  the  funeral 
to  order.  You  would  not  have  your  friend  buried  like  a 
pauper !  " 

"Come,  come,  my  dear  sir,"  put  in  La  Sauvage,  seizing 
a  moment  when  Schmucke  laid  his  head  back  in  the  great 
chair  to  pour  a  spoonful  of  soup  into  his  mouth.  She  fed 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  and  almost  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Now,  if  you  were  wise,  sir,  since  j'ou  are  inclined  to  give 
yourself  up  quietly  to  grief,  you  would  find  some  one  to  act 
for  you " 

"As  you  are  thinking  of  raising  a  magnificent  monument 
to  the  memory  of  your  friend,  sir,  you  have  only  to  leave  it 
all  to  me ;  I  will  undertake " 

"What  is  all  this?  What  is  all  this?"  asked  La  Sauvage. 
"Has  Monsieur  Schmucke  ordered  something?  Who  may 
you  be?" 

"  I  represent  the  firm  of  Sonet,  my  dear  madame,  the  big- 
gest monumental  stonemasons  in  Paris,"  said  the  person  in 
black,  handing  a  business  card  to  the  stalwart  Sauvage. 

"  Very  well,  that  will  do.  Some  one  will  go  to  you  when 
the  time  comes ;  but  you  must  not  take  advantage  of  the  gen- 


382  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

tleman's  condition  now.     You  can  quite  see  that  he  is  not 
himself " 

The  agent  led  her  out  upon  the  landing. 

"If  you  will  undertake  to  get  the  order  for  us,"  he  said 
confidentially,  "  I  am  empowered  to  offer  you  forty  francs." 

Mme.  Sauvage  grew  placable.  "Very  well,  let  me  have 
your  address,"  said  she. 

Schmucke  meantime  being  left  to  himself,  and  feeling  the 
stronger  for  the  soup  and  bread  that  he  had  been  forced  to 
swallow,  returned  at  once  to  Pons'  room,  and  to  his  prayers. 
He  had  lost  himself  in  the  fathomless  depths  of  sorrow,  when 
a  voice  sounding  in  his  ears  drew  him  back  from  the  abyss  of 
grief,  and  a  young  man  in  a  suit  of  black  returned  for  the 
eleventh  time  to  the  charge,  pulling  the  poor,  tortured  victim's 
coat-sleeve  until  he  listened. 

"Sir!"  said  he. 

"  Vat  ees  it  now?" 

"Sir!  we  owe  a  supreme  discovery  to  Dr.  Gannal :  we  do 
not  dispute  his  fame,  he  has  worked  the  miracles  of  Egypt 
afresh ;  but  there  have  been  improvements  made  upon  his 
system.  We  have  obtained  surprising  results.  So,  if  you 
would  like  to  see  your  friend  again,  as  he  was  when  he  was 
alive " 

"See  him  again!"  cried  Schmucke.  "Shall  he  speak 
to  me?" 

"Not  exactly.  Speech  is  the  only  thing  wanting,"  con- 
tinued the  embalmer's  agent.  "But  he  will  remain  as  he  is 
after  embalming  for  all  eternity.  The  operation  is  over  in  a 
few  seconds.  Just  an  incision  in  the  carotid  artery  and  an 
injection.  But  it  is  high  time;  if  you  wait-one  single  quarter 
of  an  hour,  sir,  you  will  not  have  the  sweet  satisfaction  of 
preserving  the  body " 

"  Go  to  der  teufel  !  Bons  is  ein  spirit — und  dat  spirit  is  in 
hefn." 

"  That  man  has  no  gratitude  in  his  composition,"  remarked 


COUSIN  PONS.  383 

the  youthful  agent  of  one  of  the  famous  Gannal's  rivals ;  "he 
will  not  embalm  his  friend." 

The  words  were  spoken  under  the  archway,  and  addressed 
to  La  Cibot,  who  had  just  submitted  iier  beloved  to  the  pro- 
cess. 

"  What  would  you  have,  sir  !  "  she  said.  "  He  is  the  heir, 
the  universal  legatee.  As  soon  as  they  get  what  they  want, 
the  dead  are  nothing  to  them." 

An  hour  later,  Schmucke  saw  Mme.  Sauvage  come  into  the 
room,  followed  by  another  man  in  a  suit  of  black,  a  workman 
to  all  appearance. 

"  Cantinet  has  been  so  obliging  as  to  send  this  gentleman, 
sir,"  she  said ;   "  he  is  a  coffin-maker  to  the  parish." 

The  coffin-maker  made  his  bow  with  a  sympathetic  and 
compassionate  air,  but  none  the  less  he  had  a  business-like 
look,  and  seemed  to  know  that  he  was  indispensable.  He 
turned  an  expert's  eye  upon  the  dead. 

"  How  does  the  gentleman  wish  'it'  to  be  made?  Deal, 
plain  oak,  or  oak  lead-lined  ?  Oak  with  a  lead  lining  is  the 
best  style.  The  body  is  a  stock  size  " — he  felt  for  the  feet 
and  proceeded  to  take  the  measure — "one  metre  seventy!" 
he  added.  "You  will  be  thinking  of  ordering  the  funeral 
service  at  the  church,  sir,  no  doubt  ?  " 

Schmucke  looked  at  him  as  a  dangerous  madman  might 
look  before  striking  a  blow.     La  Sauvage  put  in  a  word. 

"  You  ought  to  find  somebody  to  look  after  all  these  things," 
she  said. 

"Yes "  the  victim  murmured  at  length. 

"Shall  I  fetch  Monsieur  Tabareau? — for  you  will  have  a 
good  deal  on  your  hands  before  long.  Monsieur  Tabareau  is 
the  most  honest  man  in  the  quarter,  you  know." 

"Yes.  Mennesir  Dapareau  !  Somepody  vas  speaking  of 
him  chust  now "  said  Schmucke,  completely  beaten. 

"Very  well.  You  can  be  quiet,  sir,  and  give  yourself  up 
to  grief,  when  you  have  seen  your  deputy." 


384  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  Monsieur  Tabareau's  head- 
clerk,  a  young  man  who  aimed  at  a  bailiff's  career,  modestly 
presented  himself.  Youth  has  wonderful  privileges ;  no  one 
is  alarmed  by  youth.  This  young  man,  Villemot  by  name, 
sat  down  by  Schmucke's  side  and  waited  his  opportunity  to 
speak.     His  diffidence  touched  Schmucke  very  much. 

"  I  am  Monsieur  Tabareau's  head-clerk,  sir,"  he  said  ;  "  he 
sent  me  here  to  take  charge  of  your  interests,  and  to  superin- 
tend the  funeral  arrangements.     Is  this  your  wish?  " 

"You  cannot  safe  my  life,  I  haf  not  long  to  lif;  but  you 
vill  leaf  me  in  beace  !  " 

*'  Oh  !  you  shall  not  be  disturbed,"  said  Villemot. 
*'  Ver'  goot.     Vat  must  I  do  for  dat  ?  " 
''Sign  this  paper  appointing  Monsieur  Tabareau  to  act  for 
you  in  all  matters  relating  to  the  settlement  of  the  affairs  of 
the  deceased." 

•'  Goot !  gif  it  to  me,"  said  Schmucke,  anxious  only  to  sign 
it  at  once. 

"  No,  I  must  read  it  over  to  you  first." 
"Read  it  ofer." 

Schmucke  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  the  reading  of 
the  power  of  attorney,  but  he  set  his  name  to  it.  The  young 
clerk  took  Schmucke's  orders  for  the  funeral,  the  interment, 
and  the  burial  service ;  undertaking  that  he  should  not  be 
troubled  again  in  any  way,  nor  asked  for  money. 

"  I  vould  gif  all  dat  I  haf  to  pe  left  in  beace,"  said  the  un- 
happy man.  And  once  more  he  knelt  beside  the  dead  body 
of  his  friend. 

Fraisier  had  triumphed.  Villemot  and  La  Sauvage  com- 
pleted the  circle  which  he  had  traced  about  Pons'  heir. 

There  is  no  sorrow  that  sleep  cannot  overcome.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  day  La  Sauvage,  coming  in,  found  Schmucke 
stretched  asleep  at  the  bed-foot.  She  carried  him  off,  put 
him  to  bed,  tucked  him  in  maternally,  and  till  the  morning 
Schmucke  slept. 


COUSIN  PONS.  385 

When  he  awoke,  or  rather  when  the  truce  was  over,  and  he 
again  became  conscious  of  his  sorrows,  Pons'  coffin  lay  under 
the  gateway  in  such  state  as  a  third-class  funeral  may  claim, 
and  Schmucke  seeking  vainly  for  his  friend,  wandered  from 
room  to  room,  across  vast  spaces,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  empty 
of  everything  save  hideous  memories.  La  Sauvage  took  him 
in  hand,  much  as  a  nurse  manages  a  child ;  she  made  him 
take  his  breakfast  before  starting  for  the  church  ;  and  while 
the  poor  sufferer  forced  himself  to  eat,  she  discovered,  with 
lamentations  worthy  of  Jeremiah,  that  he  had  not  a  black  coat 
in  his  possession.  La  Cibot  took  entire  charge  of  his  ward- 
robe ;  since  Pons  fell  ill  his  apparel,  like  his  dinner,  had  been 
reduced  to  the  lowest  terms — to  a  couple  of  coats  and  two 
pairs  of  trousers. 

''And  you  are  going  just  as  you  are  to  Monsieur  Pons' 
funeral  ?  It  is  an  unheard-of  thing  \  the  whole  quarter  will 
cry  shame  upon  us  !  " 

"  Und  how  vill  you  dat  I  go  ?  " 

"Why,  in  mourning " 

"  Mourning?" 

*'  It  is  the  proper  thing." 

"  Der  bropper  ding ! confound  all  dis  stupid  nonsense !  " 

cried  poor  Schmucke,  driven  to  the  last  degree  of  exasperation 
which  a  childlike  soul  can  reach  under  stress  of  sorrow. 

"Why,  the  man  is  a  monster  of  ingratitude!"  said  La 
Sauvage,  turning  to  a  person  who  just  then  appeared.  At  the 
sight  of  this  functionary  Schmucke  shuddered.  The  new- 
comer wore  a  splendid  suit  of  black,  black  knee-breeches, 
black  silk  stockings,  a  pair  of  white  cufifs,  an  extremely  cor- 
rect white  muslin  tie,  and  white  gloves.  A  silver  chain  with 
a  coin  attached  ornamented  his  person.  A  typical  official, 
stamped  with  the  official  expression  of  decorous  gloom,  an 
ebony  wand  in  his  hand  by  way  of  insignia  of  office,  he  stood 
waiting  with  a  three-cornered  hat  adorned  with  the  tricolor 
cockade  under  his  arm. 
25 


3S6  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

*'  I  am  the  master  of  the  ceremonies,"  this  person  remarked 
in  a  subdued  voice. 

Accustomed  daily  to  superintend  funerals,  to  move  among 
families  plunged  in  one  and  the  same  kind  of  tribulation,  real 
or  feigned,  this  man,  like  the  rest  of  his  fraternity,  spoke  in 
hushed  and  soothing  tones ;  he  was  decorous,  polished,  and 
formal,  like  an  allegorical  stone  figure  of  Death. 

Schraucke  quivered  through  every  nerve  as  if  he  were  con- 
fronting his  executioner. 

"Is  this  gentleman  the  son,  brother,  or  father  of  the 
deceased?"  inquired  the  official. 

"I  am  all  dat  und  more  pesides — I  am  his  frient,"  said 
Schmucke  through  a  torrent  of  weeping. 

*'Are  you  his  heir?" 

"Heir? "  repeated  Schmucke.      "  Noding  matters  to 

me  more  in  dis  vorld,"  returning  to  his  attitude  of  hopeless 
sorrow. 

"Where  are  the  relatives,  the  friends?"  asked  the  master 
of  the  ceremonies. 

"  All  here  !  "  exclaimed  the  German,  indicating  the  pictures 
and  rarities.  "  Not  von  of  dem  haf  efer  gifn  bain  to  mein 
boor  Bons.     Here  ees  everydings  dot  he  lofed,  after  me." 

"He  is  off  his  head,  sir,"  put  in  La  Sauvage.  "It  is 
useless  to  listen  to  him." 

Schmucke  had  taken  his  seat  again,  and  looked  as  vacant  as 
before ;  he  dried  his  eyes  mechanically.  Villemot  came  up 
at  that  moment ;  he  had  ordered  the  funeral,  and  the  master 
of  the  ceremonies,  recognizing  him,  made  an  appeal  to  the 
new-comer. 

"Well,  sir,  it  is  time  to  start.  The  hearse  is  here;  but  I 
have  not  often  seen  such  a  funeral  as  this.  Where  are  the 
relatives  and  friends?" 

"We  have  been  pressed  for  time,"  replied  Villemot. 
"  This  gentleman  was  in  such  deep  grief  that  he  could  think 
of  nothing.     And  there  is  only  one  relative." 


COUSIN  PONS.  387 

The  master  of  the  ceremonies  looker,  compassionately  at 
Schmucke ;  this  expert  in  sorrow  knew  real  grief  when  he  saw 
it. 

He  went  across  to  him. 

"Come,  take  heart,  my  dear  sir.  Think  of  paying  honor 
to  your  friend's  memory." 

"We  forgot  to  send  out  cards;  but  I  took  care  to  send  a 
special  message  to  Monsieur  le  President  de  Marville,  the  one 
relative  that  I  mentioned  to  you.  There  are  no  friends. 
Monsieur  Pons  was  conductor  of  an  orchestra  at  a  theatre,  but 
I  do  not  think  that  any  one  will  come.  This  gentleman  is 
the  universal  legatee,  I  believe." 

"Then  he  ought  to  be  chief  mourner,"  said  the  master  of 
the  ceremonies.  "Have  you  not  a  black  coat?"  he  con- 
tinued, noticing  Schraucke's  costume. 

"lam  all  in  plack  insite !  "  poor  Schmucke  replied  in 
heart-rending  tones;  "so  plack  it  is  dot  I  feel  death  in  me. 
Gott  in  hefn  is  going  to  haf  pity  upon  me  ;  He  vill  send  me 
to  mein  frient  in  der  grafe,  und  I  dank  Him  for  it " 

He  clasped  his  hands. 

"I  have  told  our  management  before  now  that  we  ought  to 
have  a  wardrobe  department  and  lend  the  proper  mourning 
costumes  on  hire,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies,  address- 
ing Villemot ;  "  it  is  a  want  that  is  more  and  more  felt  every 
day,  and  we  have  even  now  introduced  improvements.  But 
as  this  gentleman  is  chief  mourner  he  ought  to  wear  a  cloak, 
and  this  one  that  I  have  brought  with  me  will  cover  him  from 
head  to  foot ;  no  one  need  know  that  he  is  not  in  proper 
mourning  costume.     Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  rise?  " 

Schmucke  rose,  but  he  tottered  on  his  feet. 

"  Support  him,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies,  turning 
to  Villemot ;  "  you  are  his  legal  representative." 

Villemot  held  Schmucke's  arm  while  the  master  of  the  cer- 
emonies invested  Schmucke  with  the  ample,  dismal-looking 
garment  worn  by  heirs-at-law  in  the  procession  to  and  from 


388  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

the  house  and  the  church.  He  tied  the  black  silken  cords 
under  the  chin,  and  Schmucke  as  heir  was  in  "  full  dress." 

"And  now  comes  a  great  difficulty,"  continued  the  master 
of  the  ceremonies;  "we  want  four  bearers  for  the  pall.  If 
nobody  comes  to  the  funeral,  who  is  to  fill  the  corners  ?  It 
is  half-past  ten  already,"  he  added,  looking  at  his  watch; 
"they  are  waiting  for  us  at  the  church." 

"Oh!  here  comes  Fraisier  !  "  Villemot  exclaimed,  very 
imprudently  ;  but  there  was  no  one  to  hear  the  tacit  confes- 
sion of  complicity. 

"Who  is  this  gentleman?"  inquired  the  master  of  the 
ceremonies. 

"  Oh  !  he  comes  on  behalf  of  the  family." 

"Whose  family?" 

"The  disinherited  family.  He  is  Monsieur  Camusot  de 
Marville's  representative." 

"Good,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies,  with  a  satis- 
fied air.  "  We  shall  have  two  pall-bearers  at  any  rate — you 
and  he." 

And,  happy  to  find  two  of  the  places  filled  up,  he  took  out 
some  wonderful  white  buckskin  gloves,  and  politely  presented 
Fraisier  and  Villemot  with  a  pair  apiece. 

"If  you  two  gentlemen  will  be  so  good  as  to  act  as  pall- 
bearers  "  said  he. 

Fraisier,  in  black  from  head  to  foot,  pretentiously  dressed, 
with  his  white  tie  and  official  air,  was  a  sight  to  shudder  at ; 
he  embodied  a  hundred  briefs. 

"Willingly,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  If  only  two  more  persons  will  come,  the  four  corners  will 
be  filled  up,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

At  that  very  moment  the  indefatigable  representative  of  the 
firm  of  Sonet  came  up,  and  closely  following  him,  the  one 
man  who  remembered  Pons  and  thought  of  paying  him  a  last 
tribute  of  respect.  This  was  a  supernumerary  at  the  theatre, 
the  man  who  put  out  the  scores  on   the  music-stands  for  the 


COUSIN  PONS.  389 

orchestra.      Pons  had  been  wont  to  give  him  a  five-franc  piece 
once  a  month,  knowing  that  he  had  a  wife  and  family. 

"Oh,  Dobinard  (Topinard)  !  "  Schmucke  cried  out  at  the 
sight  of  him,  ''you  love  Bons  !  " 

"  Why,  I  have  come  to  ask  news  of  Monsieur  Pons  every 
morning,  sir." 

"Efery  morning!  boor  Dobinard!"  and  Schmucke 
squeezed  the  man's  hand. 

"  But  they  took  me  for  a  relation,  no  doubt,  and  did  not 
like  my  visits  at  all.  I  told  them  that  I  belonged  to  the 
theatre  and  came  to  inquire  after  Maitre  Pons;  but  it  was  no 
good.  They  saw  througli  that  dodge,  they  said.  I  asked  to 
see  the  poor  dear  man,  but  they  never  would  let  me  come 
upstairs." 

'*  Dat  apominable  Zipod!  "  said  Schmucke,  squeezing  Topi- 
nard's  horny  hand  to  his  heart. 

"He  was  the  best  of  men,  that  good  Monsieur  Pons. 
Every  month  he  used  to  give  me  five  francs.  He  knew  that  I 
had  three  children  and  a  wife.  My  wife  has  gone  to  the 
church." 

"  I  shall  difide  mein  pread  mit  you,"  cried  Schmucke,  in  his 
joy  at  finding  at  his  side  some  one  who  loved  Pons. 

"  If  this  gentleman  will  take  a  corner  of  the  pall,  we  shall 
have  all  four  filled  up,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

There  had  been  no  difficulty  over  persuading  the  agent  for 
monuments.  He  took  a  corner  the  more  readily  when  he  was 
shown  the  handsome  pair  of  gloves  which,  according  to 
custom,  was  to  be  his  property. 

"  A  quarter  to  eleven  !  We  absolutely  must  go  down. 
They  are  waiting  for  us  at  the  church." 

The  six  persons  thus  assembled  went  two-and-two  down  the 
staircase. 

The  cold-blooded  lawyer  remained  a  moment  to  speak  to 
the  two  women  on  the  landing.  "  Stop  here,  and  let  nobody 
come    in,"   he  said,   "especially   if  you  wish  to  remain   in 


390  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

charge,  Madame  Cantinet.  Aha !  two  francs  a  day,  you 
know!" 

By  a  coincidence  in  nowise  extraordinary  in  Paris,  two 
hearses  were  waiting  at  the  door  and  two  coffins  standing 
under  the  archway  ;  Cibot's  funeral  was  to  take  place  at  the 
same  hour.  Nobody  came  to  pay  any  tribute  of  affection  to 
the  "deceased  friend  of  the  arts,"  lying  in  state  among  the 
lighted  tapers,  but  every  porter  in  the  neighborhood  sprinkled 
a  drop  of  holy  water  upon  the  second  bier.  And  this  con- 
trast between  the  crowd  at  Cibot's  funeral  and  the  solitary 
state  in  which  Pons  was  lying  was  made  even  more  striking  in 
the  street.  Schmucke  was  the  only  mourner  that  followed 
Pons'  cofHn  ;  Schmucke,  supported  by  one  of  the  undertaker's 
men,  for  he  tottered  at  every  step.  From  the  Rue  de  Nor- 
mandie  to  the  Rue  d'Orleans  and  the  church  of  Saint- 
Francois  the  two  ''•'nerals  went  between  a  double  row  of 
curious  onlookers,  for  everything  (as  was  said  before)  makes  a 
sensation  in  the  quarter.  Every  one  remarked  the  splendor 
of  the  white  funeral  car,  with  a  big  embroidered  P  suspended 
on  a  hatchment,  and  the  one  solitary  mourner  behind  it ; 
while  the  cheap  bier  that  came  after  it  was  followed  by  an 
immense  crowd.  Happily,  Schmucke  was  so  bewildered  by 
the  throng  of  idlers  and  the  rows  of  heads  in  the  windows 
that  he  heard  no  remarks  and  only  saw  the  faces  through  a 
mist  of  tears. 

"Oh,  it  is  the  nutcracker!  "  said  one,  "the  musician  you 
know " 

"  Who  can  the  pall-bearers  be  ?  " 

"Pooh!   play-actors." 

"  I  say,  just  look  at  poor  old  Cibot's  funeral.  There  is  one 
worker  the  less.  What  a  man  !  he  could  never  get  enough 
work!  " 

"  He  never  went  out." 

"He  never  kept  Saint  Monday." 

"  How  fond  he  was  of  his  wife  !  " 


COUSIN  PONS.  391 

*'  Ah  !     There  is  an  unhappy  woman  !  " 

Remonencq  walked  behind    his   victim's   coffin.      People 
condoled  with  him  on  the  loss  of  his  neighbor. 

The  two  funerals  reached  the  church.     Cantinet  and   the 
doorkeeper  saw  that  no  beggars  troubled  Schmucke.     Ville- 
mot  had  given  his  word  that  Pons'  heir  should  be  left  in  peace ; 
he  watched  over  his  client,  and  gave  the  requisite  sums;  and 
Cibot's  humble  bier,  escorted  by  sixty  or  eighty  persons,  drew 
all  the  crowd  after  it  to  the  cemetery.     At  the  church-door 
Pons'    funeral   procession    mustered    four   mourning-coaches, 
one  for  the  priest  and  three  for  the  relations;  but  one  only  was 
required,  for  the  representative  of  the  firm  of  Sonet  departed 
during  mass  to  give  notice  to  his  principal  that  the  funeral  was 
on  the  way,  so  that  the  design  for  the  monument  might  be 
ready  for  the  survivor  at  the  gates  of  the  cemetery.     A  single 
coach  sufficed  for  Fraisier,  Villemot,  Schmucke,  and  Topinard ; 
but  the  remaining  two,  instead  of  returning  to  the  undertaker, 
followed  in  the  procession  to  Pere-Lachaise — a  useless  proces- 
sion, not  infrequently  seen  ;  there  are  always  too  many  coaches 
when  the  dead  are  unknown  beyond  their  own  circle  and  there 
is  no  crowd  at  the  funeral.     Dear,  indeed,  the  dead  must  have 
been  in  their  lifetime  if  relative  or  friend  will  go  with  them  so 
far  as  the  cemetery  in  this  Paris,  where  every  one  would  fain 
have  twenty-five  hours  in  the  day.     But  with  the  coachmen  it 
is  different ;  they  lose  their  tips  if  they  do  not  make  the  jour- 
ney;  so,  empty  or  full,  the  mourning-coaches  go  to  church 
and  cemetery  and  return  to  the  house  for  gratuities.     A  death 
is  a  sort  of  drinking-fountain  for  an  unimagined  crowd  of 
thirsty  mortals.      The  attendants  at    the  church,   the    poor, 
the  undertaker's  men,  the  drivers  and  sextons,  are  creatures 
like  sponges  that  dip  into  a  hearse  and  come  out  again  satu- 
rated. 

From  the  church-door,  where  he  was  beset  with  a  swarm  of 
beggars  (promptly  dispersed  by  the  beadle),  to  Pere-Lachaise, 
poor  Schmucke  went  as  criminals  went  in  old  times  from  the 


392  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

Palais  de  Justice  to  the  Place  de  Greve.  It  was  his  own 
funeral  that  he  followed,  clinging  to  Topinard's  hand,  to  the 
one  living  creature  beside  himself  who  felt  a  pang  of  real  regret 
for  Pons'  death. 

As  for  Topinard — greatly  touched  by  the  honor  of  the  re- 
quest to  act  as  pall-bearer,  content  to  drive  in  a  carriage,  the 
possessor  of  a  new  pair  of  gloves — it  began  to  dawn  upon  him 
that  this  was  to  be  one  of  the  great  days  of  his  life.  Schmucke 
was  driven  passively  along  the  road,  as  some  unlucky  calf  is 
driven  in  a  butcher's  cart  to  the  slaughter-house.  Fraisier  and 
Villemot  sat  with  their  backs  to  the  horses.  Now,  as  those 
know  whose  sad  fortune  it  has  been  to  accompany  many  of 
their  friends  to  their  last  resting-place,  all  hypocrisy  breaks 
down  in  the  coach  during  the  journey  (often  a  very  long  one) 
from  the  church  to  the  eastern  cemetery,  to  that  one  of  the 
burying-grounds  of  Paris  in  which  all  vanities,  all  kinds  of 
display,  are  met,  so  rich  is  it  in  sumptuous  monuments.  On 
these  occasions  those  who  feel  least  begin  to  talk  soonest, 
and  in  the  end  the  saddest  listen,  and  their  thoughts  are 
diverted. 

"Monsieur  le  President  had  already  started  for  the  Court," 
Fraisier  told  Villemot,  "  and  I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
tear  him  away  from  business ;  he  would  have  come  too  late  in 
any  case.  He  is  the  next-of-kin  ;  but  as  he  has  been  disin- 
herited and  Monsieur  Schmucke  gets  everything,  I  thought 
that  if  his  legal  representative  were  present  it  would  be 
enough." 

Topinard  lent  an  ear  to  this. 

"  Who  was  the  queer  customer  that  took  the  fourth  corner?  " 
continued  Fraisier. 

"He  is  an  agent  for  a  firm  of  monumental  stonemasons. 
He  would  like  an  order  for  a  tomb,  on  which  he  proposes  to 
put  three  sculptured  marble  figures — Music,  Painting,  and 
Sculpture — shedding  tears  over  the  deceased." 

"It  is  an  idea,"  said  Fraisier;  "the  old  gentleman   cer- 


COUSIN  PONS.  393 

tainly  deserved  that  much  ;  but  the  monument  would  cost 
seven  or  eight  hundred  francs." 

"Oh  !  quite  that!  " 

"If  Monsieur  Schmucke  gives  the  order,  it  cannot  affect 
the  estate.  You  might  eat  up  a  whole  property  with  such  ex- 
penses." 

"  There  would  be  a  lawsuit,  but  you  would  gain  it " 

"Very  well,"  said  Fraisier,  "  then  it  will  be  his  affair.  It 
would  be  a  nice  practical  joke  to  play  upon  the  monument- 
makers,"  Fraisier  added  in  Villemot's  ear;  "for  if  the  will  is 
upset  (and  I  can  answer  for  that),  or  if  there  is  no  will  at  all, 
who  would  pay  them  ?  " 

Villemot  grinned  like  a  monkey,  and  the  pair  began  to 
talk  confidentially,  lowering  their  voices ;  but  the  man  from 
the  theatre,  with  his  wits  and  senses  sharpened  in  the  world 
behind  the  scenes,  could  guess  at  the  nature  of  their  discourse  ; 
in  spite  of  the  rumbling  of  the  carriage  and  other  hindrances, 
he  began  to  understand  that  these  representatives  of  justice 
were  scheming  to  plunge  poor  Schmucke  into  difficulties;  and 
when  at  last  he  heard  the  ominous  word  "Clichy,"*  the 
honest  and  loyal  servitor  of  the  stage  made  up  his  mind  to 
watch  over  Pons'  friend. 

At  the  cemetery,  where  three  square  yards  of  ground  had 
been  purchased  through  the  good  offices  of  the  firm  of  Sonet 
(Villemot  having  announced  Schmucke's  intention  of  erecting 
a  magnificent  monument),  the  master  of  the  ceremonies  led 
Schmucke  through  a  curious  crowd  to  the  grave  into  which 
Pons'  coffin  was  about  to  be  lowered ;  but  here,  at  the  sight 
of  the  square  hole,  the  four  men  waiting  with  ropes  to  lower 
the  bier,  and  the  clergy  saying  the  last  prayer  for  the  dead  at 
the  grave-side,  something  clutched  tightly  at  the  German's 
heart.     He  fainted  away. 

Sonet's  agent  and  M.  Sonet  himself  came  to  help  Topinard 
to  carry  poor  Schmucke  into  the  marble-works  hard  by,  where 
*  The  old  debtors'  prison  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy. 


894  THE   rOOR   PARENTS. 

Mme.  Sonet  and  Mme.  Vitelot  (Sonet's  partner's  wife)  were 
eagerly  prodigal  of  efforts  to  revive  him.  Topinard  stayed. 
He  had  seen  Fraisier  in  conversation  with  Sonet's  agent,  and 
Fraisier,  in  his  opinion,  had  gallows-bird  written  on  his  ma- 
levolent face. 

An  hour  later,  toward  half-past  two  o'clock,  the  poor,  in- 
nocent German  came  to  himself.  Schmucke  thought  that  be 
had  been  dreaming  for  the  past  two  days ;  if  he  could  only 
wake,  he  should  find  Pons  still  alive.  So  many  wet  towels 
had  been  laid  on  his  forehead,  he  had  been  made  to  inhale 
salts  and  vinegar  to  such  an  extent,  that  he  opened  his  eyes  at 
last.  Mme.  Sonet  made  him  take  some  meat-soup,  for  they 
had  put  the  pot  on  the  fire  at  the  marble-works. 

"Our  clients  do  not  often  take  things  to  heart  like  this; 
still,  it  happens  once  in  a  year  or  two " 

At  last  Schmucke  talked  of  returning  to  the  Rue  de  Nor- 
mandie,  and  at  this  Sonet  began  at  once. 

"Here  is  the  design,  sir,"  he  said;  "Vitelot  drew  it  ex- 
pressly for  you,  and  sat  up  last  night  to  do  it.  And  he  has 
been  happily  inspired,  it  will  look  fine " 

"One  of  the  finest  in  Pere-Lachaise  !  "  said  little  Mme, 
Sonet.  "But  you  really  ought  to  honor  the  memory  of  a 
friend  who  left  you  all  his  fortune." 

The  design,  supposed  to  have  been  drawn  on  purpose,  had 
as  a  matter  of  fact  been  prepared  for  de  Marsay,  the  famous 
cabinet  minister.  His  widow,  however,  had  given  the  com- 
mission to  Stidmann ;  people  were  disgusted  with  the  tawdri- 
ness  of  the  project,  and  it  was  refused.  The  three  figures  at 
that  period  represented  the  Three  Days  of  July  which  brought 
the  eminent  minister  to  power.  Subsequently,  Sonet  and  Vite- 
lot had  turned  the  Three  Glorious  Days — '^les  trots glorieuses^^ 
— into  the  Army,  Finance,  and  the  Family,  and  sent  in  the 
design  for  the  sepulchre  of  the  late  lamented  Charles  Keller ; 
and  here  again  Stidmann  took  the  commission.  In  the  eleven 
years  that  followed,  the  sketch  had  been  modified  to  suit  all 


COUSIN  PONS.  395 

kinds  of  requirements,  and  now  in  Vitelot's  fresh  tracing  they 
reappeared  as  Music,  Sculpture,  and  Painting. 

"It  is  a  mere  trifle  when  yon  think  of  the  details  and  cost 
of  setting  it  up;  for  it  will  take  six  months,"  said  Vitelot. 
"Here  is  the  estimate  and  the  order-form — seven  thousand 
francs,  sketch  in  plaster  not  included." 

"If  Monsieur  Schmucke  would  like  marble,"  put  in  Sonet 
(marble  being  his  special  department),  "  it  would  cost  twelve 
thousand  francs,  and  monsieur  would  immortalize  himself  as 
well  as  his  friend." 

Topinard  turned  to  Vitelot. 

"  I  have  just  heard  that  they  are  going  to  dispute  the  will," 
he  whispered,  "and  the  relatives  are  likely  to  come  by  their 
property.  Go  and  speak  to  Monsieur  Camusot,  for  this  poor, 
harmless  creature  has  not  a  farthing." 

"This  is  the  kind  of  customer  that  you  always  bring  us," 
said  Mme.  Vitelot,  beginning  a  quarrel  with  the  agent. 

Topinard  led  Schmucke  uway,  and  they  returned  home  on 
foot  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  for  the  mourning-coaches 
had  been  sent  back. 

"Do  not  leaf  me,"  Schmucke  said,  when  Topinard  had 
seen  him  safe  into  Mme.  Sauvage's  hands,  and  wanted  to  go. 

"  It  is  four  o'clock,  dear  Monsieur  Schmucke.  I  must  go 
home  to  dinner.  My  wife  is  a  bo.x-opener — she  will  not  know 
what  has  become  of*  me.  The  theatre  opens  at  a  quarter  to 
six,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know — but  remember  dat  I  am  alone  in  die  earth, 
dat  I  haf  no  frient.  You  dat  haf  shed  a  tear  for  Bons,  en- 
liden  me  ;  I  am  in  teep  tarkness,  und  Bons  said  dat  I  vas  in 
der  midst  of  shcoundrels. " 

"  I  have  seen  that  plainly  already  ;  I  have  just  prevented 
them  from  sending  you  to  Clichy." 

"  Giig}'  ^"  repeated  Schmucke  ;  "  I  do  not  understand." 

"Poor  man!  Well,  never  mind,  I  will  come  to  you. 
Good-by. 


» » 


396  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

"  Goot-by ;  kom  again  soon,"  said  Schmucke,  dropping 
half-dead  with  weariness. 

"Farewell,  mosieu,"  said  Mme.  Sauvage,  and  there  was 
something  in  her  tone  that  struck  Topinard. 

"Oh,  come,  what  is  the  matter  now  ?  "  he  asked  banteringly. 
"You  are  attitudinizing  like  a  traitor  in  a  melodrama." 

"Traitor  yourself!  Why  have  you  come  meddling  here? 
Do  you  want  to  have  a  hand  in  the  master's  affairs,  and 
swindle  him,  eh?  " 

"Swindle  him!  Your  very  humble  servant!"  Topinard 
answered  with  superb  disdain.  "  I  am  only  a  poor  super  at  a 
theatre,  but  I  am  something  of  an  artist,  and  you  may  as  well 
know  that  I  never  asked  anything  of  anybody  yet !  Who 
asked  anything  of  you?  Who  owes  you  anything?  eh,  old 
lady  !  " 

"You  are  employed  at  a  theatre,  and  your  name  is ?" 

"Topinard,  at  your  service." 

"Kind  regards  to  all  at  home,"  said  La  Sauvage,  "and  my 
compliments  to  your  missus,  if  you  are  married,  mister. 
That  was  all  I  wanted  to  know." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  dear?"  asked  Mme.  Cantinet, 
coming  out. 

"This,  child — stop  here  and  look  after  the  dinner  while  I 
run  round  to  speak  to  monsieur." 

"  He  is  down  below,  talking  with  poor  Madame  Cibot, 
that  is  crying  her  eyes  out,"  said  Mme.  Cantinet. 

La  Sauvage  dashed  down  in  such  headlong  haste  that  the 
stairs  trembled  beneath  her  tread. 

"  Monsieur  !  "  she  called,  and  drew  him  aside  a  few  paces 
to  point  out  Topinard. 

Topinard  was  just  going  away,  proud  at  heart  to  have  made 
some  return  already  to  the  man  who  had  done  him  so  many 
a  kindness.  He  had  saved  Pons'  friend  from  a  trap,  by  a 
stratagem  from  that  world  behind  the  scenes  in  which  every 
one  has  more  or  less  ready  wit.    And  within  himself  he  vowed 


COUSIN  PONS.  397 

to  protect  a  musician  in  his  orchestra  from  future  snares  set  for 
his  simple  sincerity. 

"  Do  you  see  that  little  wretch?  "  said  La  Sauvagc.  "  He 
is  a  kind  of  honest  man  that  has  a  mind  to  poke  his  nose  into 
Monsieur  Schmucke's  affairs." 

'■ '  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  Fraisier. 

"Oh  !  he  is  a  nobody." 

"  In  business  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  nobody." 

"  Oh,  he  is  employed  at  the  theatre,"  said  she ;  "his  name 
is  Topinard." 

"  Good,  Madame  Sauvage  !  Go  on  like  this,  and  you  shall 
have  your  tobacconist's  store." 

And  Fraisier  resumed  his  conversation  with  Mme.  Cibot. 

"  So  I  say,  my  dear  client,  that  you  have  not  played  openly 
and  above-board  with  me,  and  that  one  is  not  bound  in  any 
way  to  a  partner  who  cheats." 

"And  how  have  I  cheated  you!  "  asked  La  Cibot,  hands 
on  hips.  "  Do  you  think  that  you  will  frighten  me  with  your 
sour  looks  and  your  frosty  airs  !  You  look  about  for  bad 
reasons  for  breaking  your  promises,  and  you  call  yourself  an 
honest  man  !  Do  you  know  what  you  are  ?  You  are  a  black- 
guard !  Yes  !  yes  !  scratch  your  arm ;  but  just  pocket  that, 
mister " 

"  No  words,  and  keep  your  temper,  dearie.  Listen  to  me. 
You  have  been  feathering  your  nest.  I  found  this  catalogue 
this  morning  while  we  were  getting  ready  for  the  funeral;  it  is 
all  in  old  Pons'  handwriting,  and  made  out  in  duplicate.  And 
as  it  chanced,  my  eyes  fell  on  this " 

And  opening  the  catalogue,  he  read — 

"No.  7.  Magnificent  portrait  pai?ited  on  marble,  by  Sebastia^i 
del  Piombo,  in  1546.  Sold  by  a  family  who  had  it  removed 
from  Terni  cathedral.  The  picture,  which  represents  a  Knight- 
Templar  kneeling  in  prayer,  used  to  hang  above  a  tomb  of  the 
Rossi  family  with  a  companion  portrait  of  a  Bishop,  afterward 
purchased  by  an  Englishman.      The  portrait  might  be  attributed 


398  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

to  Raphael,  but  for  the  date.  This  example  is,  to  my  mind,  supe- 
rior to  the  portrait  of  Baccio  Bandinelli  in  the  JiTusee  ;  the  latter 
is  a  little  hard,  while  the  Templar,  being  painted  upon  '  lavagna,^ 
or  slate,  has  preserved  its  freshness  of  coloring.'^ 

"When  I  come  to  look  for  No.  7,"  continued  Fraisier,  "I 
find  a  portrait  of  a  lady,  signed  'Chardin,'  without  a  number 
on  it !  I  went  through  the  pictures  with  the  catalogue  while 
the  master  of  the  ceremonies  was  making  up  the  number  of 
pall-bearers,  and  found  that  eight  of  those  indicated  as  v/orks 
of  capital  importance  by  Monsieur  Pons  had  disappeared,  and 
eight  paintings  of  no  special  merit,  and  without  numbers,  were 
there  instead.  And,  finally,  one  was  missing  altogether,  a 
little  panel-painting  by  Metzu,  described  in  the  catalogue  as  a 
masterpiece." 

*'And  was  /  in  charge  of  the  pictures?"  demanded  T/i 
Cibot. 

"  No ;  but  you  were  in  a  position  of  trust.  You  were  Mon- 
sieur Pons'  housekeeper,  you  looked  after  his  affairs,  and  he 
has  been  robbed " 

**  Robbed  !  Let  me  tell  you  this,  sir:  Monsieur  Schmucke 
sold  the  pictures,  by  Monsieur  Pons'  orders,  to  meet  expenses." 

"And  to  whom?" 

"To  Messrs.  Elie  Magus  and  Remonencq." 

"  For  how  much?  " 

'•  I  am  sure  I  do  not  remember." 

"Look  here,  my  dear  madame;  you  have  been  feathering 
your  nest,  and  very  snugly.  I  shall  keep  an  eye  upon  you  ;  I 
have  you  safe.  Help  me,  I  will  say  nothing  !  In  any  case 
you  know  that  since  you  judged  it  expedient  to  plunder  Mon- 
sieur le  President  Camusot,  you  ought  not  to  expect  anything 
from  /«>«." 

"  I  was  sure  that  this  would  all  end  in  smoke  for  me,"  said 
La  Cibot,  mollified  by  the  words  "  I  will  say  nothing." 

Remonencq  chimed  in  at  this  point. 

"  Here  are  you  finding  fault  with  Madame  Cibot ;  that  is 


COUSIN  PONS.  399 

not  right!"  he  said.  "The  pictures  were  sold  by  private 
treaty  between  Monsieur  Pons,  Monsieur  Magus,  and  me. 
We  waited  for  three  days  before  we  came  to  terms  with  the 
deceased  ;  he  slept  on  his  pictures.  We  took  receipts  in  proper 
form ;  and  if  we  gave  Madame  Cibot  a  few  forty-franc  pieces, 
it  is  the  custom  of  the  trade — we  always  do  so  in  private 
houses  when  we  conclude  a  bargain.  Ah  !  my  dear  sir,  if  you 
think  to  cheat  a  defenseless  woman,  you  will  not  make  a  good 
bargain !  Do  you  understand,  mister  lawyer  ?  E.  Magus 
rules  the  market,  and  if  you  do  not  come  down  off  the  high 
horse,  if  you  do  not  keep  your  word  to  Madame  Cibot,  I  shall 
wait  till  the  collection  is  sold,  and  you  shall  see  what  you  will 
lose  if  you  have  Monsieur  Magus  and  me  against  you ;  we  can 
get  the  dealers  in  a  ring.  Instead  of  realizing  seven  or  eight 
hundred  thousand  francs,  you  will  not  so  much  as  make  two 
hundred  thousand." 

"  Good,  good,  we  shall  see.  We  are  not  going  to  sell ;  or 
if  we  do,  it  will  be  in  London." 

"  We  know  London,"  said  Remonencq.  "  Monsieur  Magus 
is  as  powerful  there  as  at  Paris." 

"Good-day,  madame ;  I  shall  sift  these  matters  to  the 
bottom,"  said  Fraisier — "  unless  you  continue  to  do  as  I  tell 
you,"  he  added. 

"You  little  pickpocket  ! " 

"  Take  care  !  I  shall  be  a  justice  of  the  peace  before 
long."  And  with  threats  understood  to  the  full  upon  either 
side,  they  separated. 

"  Thank  you,  Remonencq  !"  said  La  Cibot;  "it  is  very 
pleasant  to  a  poor  widow  to  find  a  champion." 

Toward  ten  o'clock  that  evening,  Gaudissart  sent  for  Topi- 
nard.  The  manager  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
in  a  Napoleonic  attitude — a  trick  which  he  had  learned  since 
he  began  to  command  his  army  of  actors,  ^■xwctx?,,  figurants, 
musicians,  and  stage-carpenters.      He  grasped   his   left-hand 


400  THE   POOR  PARENTS. 

suspender  with  his  right  hand,  always  thrust  into  his  vest ; 
his  head  was  flung  far  back,  his  eyes  gazed  out  into  space. 

"  Ah  !  I  say,  Topinard,  have  you  independent  means  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Are  you  on  the  lookout  to  better  yourself  somewhere 

else?" 

"No,  sir "  said  Topinard,  with  a  ghastly  countenance. 

"Why,  hang  it  all,  your  wife  takes  the  first  row  of  boxes 
out  of  respect  to  my  predecessor,  who  came  to  grief;  I  gave 
you  the  job  of  cleaning  the  lamps  in  the  wings  in  the  daytime, 
and  you  put  out  the  scores.  And  that  is  not  all,  either. 
You  get  twenty  sous  for  acting  monsters  and  managing  devils 
when  a  hell  is  required.  There  is  not  a  super  that  does  not 
covet  your  post,  and  there  are  those  that  are  jealous  of  you, 
my  friend  ;  you  have  enemies  in  the  theatre." 

"Enemies  !  "  repeated  Topinard. 

"  And  you  have  three  children ;  the  oldest  takes  children's 
parts  at  fifty  centimes " 

"Sir! " 

"Allow  me  to  speak "  thundered  Gaudissart.     "And 

in  your  position,  you  want  to  leave " 

"Sir! " 

"You  want  to  meddle  in  other  people's  business,  and  put 
your  finger  into  a  will  case.  Why,  you  wretched  man,  you 
would  be  crushed  like  an  egg-shell !  My  patron  is  his  excel- 
lency, Monseigneur  le  Comte  Popinot,  a  clever  man  and  a 
man  of  high  character,  whom  the  King  in  his  wisdom  has 
summoned  back  to  the  privy  council.  This  statesman,  this 
great  politician,  has  married  his  eldest  son  to  a  daughter  of 
Monsieur  le  President  de  Marville,  one  of  the  foremost  men 
among  the  high  courts  of  justice  ;  one  of  the  leading  lights 
of  the  law-courts.  Do  you  know  the  law-courts?  Very 
good.  Well,  he  is  cousin  and  heir  to  Monsieur  Pons,  to  our 
old  conductor  whose  funeral  you  attended  this  morning.  I 
do  not  blame  you  for  going  to  pay  the  last  respects  to  him, 


COUSIN  PONS.  401 

poor  man.  But  if  you  meddle  in  Monsieur  Schmucke's 
affairs,  you  will  lose  your  place.  I  wish  very  well  to  Mon- 
sieur Schmucke,  but  he  is  in  a  delicate  position  with  regard 
to  the  heirs — and  as  the  German  is  almost  nothing  to  me,  and 
the  president  and  Count  Popinot  are  a  great  deal,  I  recom- 
mend you  to  leave  the  worthy  German  to  get  out  of  his  diffi- 
culties by  himself.  There  is  a  special  Providence  that  watches 
over  Germans,  and  the  part  of  deputy  guardian-angel  would 
not  suit  you  at  all.  Do  you  see?  Stay  as  you  are — you  can- 
not do  better." 

"  Very  good,  Monsieur  le  Directeur,"  said  Topinard,  much 
distressed.  And  in  this  way  Schmucke  lost  the  protector  sent 
to  him  by  fate,  the  one  creature  that  shed  a  tear  for  Pons,  the 
poor  super  for  whose  return  he  looked  on  the  morrow. 

Next  morning  poor  Schmucke  awoke  to  a  sense  of  his  great 
and  heavy  loss.  He  looked  round  the  empty  rooms.  Yester- 
day and  the  day  before  yesterday  the  preparations  for  the 
funeral  had  made  a  stir  and  bustle  which  distracted  his  eyes ; 
but  the  silence  which  follows  the  day,  when  the  friend,  father, 
son,  or  loved  wife  has  been  laid  in  the  grave — the  dull,  cold 
silence  of  the  morrow — is  terrible,  is  glacial.  Some  irresistible 
force  drew  him  to  Pons'  chamber,  but  the  sight  of  it  was  more 
than  the  poor  man  could  bear ;  he  shrank  away  and  sat  down 
in  the  dining-room,  where  Mme.  Sauvage  was  busy  making 
breakfast  ready. 

Schmucke  drew  his  chair  to  the  table,  but  he  could  eat 
nothing.  A  sudden,  somewhat  sharp  ringing  of  the  door- 
bell rang  through  the  house,  and  Mme.  Cantinet  and  Mme. 
Sauvage  allowed  three  black-coated  personages  to  pass.  First 
came  Vitel,  the  justice  of  the  peace,  with  his  highly  respectable 
clerk  ;  the  third  was  Fraisier,  neither  sweeter  nor  milder  for 
the  disappointing  discovery  of  a  valid  will  canceling  the 
formidable  instrument  so  audaciously  stolen  by  him. 

"  We  have  come  to  affix  seals  on  the  property,"  the  justice 
of  the  peace  said  gently,    addressing   Schmucke.      But   the 
26 


402  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

remark  was  Greek  to  Schmucke ;  he  gazed  in  dismay  at  his 
three  visitors. 

*'  We  have  come  at  the  request  of  Monsieur  Fraisier,  legal 
representative  of  Monsieur  Camusot  de  Marville,  heir  of  the 
late  Pons "  added  the  clerk. 

"  The  collection  is  here  in  this  great  room  and  in  the  bed- 
room of  the  deceased,"  remarked  Fraisier. 

"Very  well,  let  us  go  into  the  next  room.  Pardon  us,  sir; 
do  not  let  us  interrupt  you  with  your  breakfast." 

The  invasion  struck  an  icy  chill  of  terror  into  poor 
Schmucke.  Fraisier's  venomous  glances  seemed  to  possess 
some  magnetic  influence  over  his  victims,  like  the  power  of  a 
spider  over  a  fly. 

"  Monsieur  Schmucke  understood  how  to  turn  a  will,  made 
in  the  presence  of  a  notary,  to  his  own  advantage,"  he  said, 
"and  he  surely  must  have  expected  some  opposition  from  the 
family.  A  family  does  not  allow  itself  to  be  plundered  by  a 
stranger  without  some  protest ;  and  we  shall  see,  sir,  which 
carries  the  day — fraud  and  corruption  or  the  rightful  heirs. 
We  have  a  right  as  next-of-kin  to  affix  seals,  and  seals  shall 
be  affixed.  I  mean  to  see  that  the  precaution  is  taken  with 
the  utmost  strictness." 

"Ach,  mein  Gott  !  how  haf  I  offended  against  hefn  ? " 
cried  the  innocent  Schmucke. 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  you  in  the  house," 
said  La  Sauvage.  "  While  you  were  asleep,  a  little  whipper- 
snapper  in  a  black  suit  came  here,  a  puppy  that  said  he  was 
Monsieur  Mannequin's  head-clerk,  and  must  see  you  at  all 
costs ;  but  as  you  were  asleep  and  tired  out  with  the  funeral 
yesterday,  I  told  him  that  Monsieur  Villemot,  Tabareau's 
head-clerk,  was  acting  for  you,  and  if  it  was  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness, I  said,  he  might  speak  to  Monsieur  Villemot.  'Ah,  so 
much  the  better  !  '  the  youngster  said.  '  I  shall  come  to  an 
understanding  with  him.  We  will  deposit  the  will  at  the 
Tribunal,  after  showing  it  to  the  president.'     So  at  that,  I 


COUSIN  PONS.  403 

told  him  to  ask  Monsieur  Villemot  to  come  here  as  soon  as  he 
could.  Be  easy,  my  dear  sir,  there  are  those  that  will  take 
care  of  you.  They  shall  not  shear  the  fleece  off  your  back. 
You  will  have  some  one  that  has  beak  and  claws.  Monsieur 
Villemot  will  give  them  a  piece  of  his  mind.  I  have  put  my- 
self in  a  passion  once  already  with  that  abominable  hussy,  La 
Cibot,  a  porter's  wife  that  sets  up  to  judge  her  lodgers,  for- 
sooth, and  insists  that  you  have  filched  the  money  from  the 
heirs;  you  locked  Monsieur  Pons  up,  she  says,  and  worked 
upon  him  till  he  was  stark,  staring  mad.  She  got  as  good 
as  she  gave,  though,  the  wretched  woman.  'You  are  a  thief 
and  a  bad  lot,'  I  told  her;  'you  will  get  into  the  police 
courts  for  all  the  things  that  you  have  stolen  from  the  gentle- 
men,' and  she  shut  up." 

The  clerk  came  out  to  speak  to  Schmucke. 

"  Would  you  wish  to  be  present,  sir,  when  the  seals  are 
affixed  in  the  next  room?" 

"Go  on,  go  on,"  said  Schmucke;  "I  shall  pe  allowed  to 
die  in  beace,  I  bresume?" 

"  Oh,  under  any  circumstances  a  man  has  a  right  to  die," 
the  clerk  answered  laughing;  "most  of  our  business  relates 
to  wills.  But,  in  my  experience,  the  universal  legatee  very 
seldom  follows  the  testator  to  the  tomb." 

"  I  am  going,"  said  Schmucke.  Blow  after  blow  had  given 
him  an  intolerable  pain  at  the  heart. 

"Oh!  here  comes  Monsieur  "Villemot!"  exclaimed  La 
Sauvage. 

"  Mennesir  Fillemod,"  said  poor  Schmucke,  "  rebresent 
me." 

"I  hurried  here  at  once,"  said  Villemot.  "I  have  come 
to  tell  you  that  the  will  is  completely  in  order ;  it  will  cer- 
tainly be  confirmed  by  the  court,  and  you  will  be  put  in  pos- 
session. 

"You  will  have  a  fine  fortune." 

**//     Ein   fein  vordune?"  cried  Schmucke  despairingly, 


404  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

That  he  of  all  men  should  be  suspected  of  caring  for  the 
money  ! 

"And  meantime,  what  is  the  justice  of  the  peace  doing 
here  with  his  wax-candles  and  his  bits  of  tape?"  asked  La 
Sauvage. 

''  Oh,  he  is  affixing  seals.  Come,  Monsieur  Schmucke, 
you  have  a  right  to  be  present." 

"  No — go  in  yourself." 

"  But  where  is  the  use  of  the  seals  Monsieur  Schmucke  is 
in  his  own  house  and  everything  belongs  to  him  ?  "  asked  La 
Sauvage,  doing  justice  in  feminine  fashion,  and  interpreting 
the  Code  according  to  their  fancy,  like  one  and  all  of  her  sex. 

**  Monsieur  Schmucke  is  not  in  possession,  madame  ;  he  is 
in  Monsieur  Pons'  house.  Everything  will  be  his,  no  doubt ; 
but  the  legatee  cannot  take  possession  without  an  authorization 
— an  order  from  the  Tribunal.  And  if  the  next-of-kin  set 
aside  by  the  testator  should  dispute  the  order,  a  lawsuit  is  the 
result.  And  as  nobody  knows  what  may  happen,  everything 
is  sealed  up,  and  the  notaries  representing  either  side  proceed 
to  draw  up  an  inventory  during  the  delay  prescribed  by  the 
law.     And  there  you  are  !  " 

Schmucke,  hearing  such  talk  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
was  completely  bewildered  by  it ;  his  head  sank  down  upon 
the  back  of  his  chair — he  could  not  support  it,  it  had  grown 
so  heavy. 

Villemot  meanwhile  went  off  to  chat  with  the  justice  of  the 
peace  and  his  clerk,  assisting  with  professional  coolness  to 
affix  the  seals — a  ceremony  which  always  involves  some  buf- 
foonery and  plentiful  comments  on  the  objects  thus  secured, 
unless  indeed  one  of  the  family  happens  to  be  present.  At 
length  the  party  sealed  up  the  chamber  and  returned  to  the 
dining-room,  whither  the  clerk  betook  himself.  Schmucke 
watched  the  mechanical  operation  which  consists  in  setting 
the  justice's  seal  at  either  end  of  a  bit  of  tape  stretched 
across  the  opening  of  a  folding  door;  or,  in  the  case  of  a 


COUSIN  PONS.  405 

cupboard  or  ordinary  door,  from  edge  to  edge  above  the 
door-handle. 

"Now  for  this  room,"  said  Fraisier,  pointing  to  Schmucke's 
bedroom,  which  opened  into  the  dining-room. 

"  But  that  is  Monsieur  Schmucke's  own  room,"  remonstrated 
La  Sauvage,  springing  in  front  of  the  door. 

"  We  found  the  lease  among  the  papers,"  Fraisier  said  ruth- 
lessly ;  "  there  is  no  mention  of  Monsieur  Schmucke  in  it ;  it  is 
taken  out  in  Monsieur  Pons'  name  only.  The  whole  place, 
and  every  room  in  it,  is  part  of  the  estate.  And  beside  " — 
flinging  open  the  door — "  look  here,  monsieur  le  juge  de  la 
paix,  it  is  full  of  pictures." 

"So  it  is,"  answered  the  justice  of  the  peace,  and  Fraisier 
thereupon  gained  his  point. 

"Wait  a  bit,  gentlemen,"  said  Villemot.  "  Do  you  know 
that  you  are  turning  the  universal  legatee  out  of  doors,  and  as 
yet  his  right  has  not  been  called  in  question." 

"Yes,  it  has,"  said  Fraisier;  "  we  are  opposing  the  transfer 
of  the  property." 

"And  upon  what  grounds?" 

"You  shall  know  that  by-and-by,  my  boy,"  Fraisier  re- 
plied banteringly.  "At  this  moment,  if  the  legatee  with- 
draws everything  that  he  declares  to  be  his,  we  shall  raise  no 
objections,  but  the  room  itself  will  be  sealed.  And  Monsieur 
Schmucke  may  lodge  where  he  pleases." 

"  No,"  said  Villemot ;  "Monsieur  Schmucke  is  going  to 
stay  in  his  room." 

"And  how?" 

"I  shall  demand  an  immediate  special  inquiry,"  continued 
Villemot,  "and  prove  that  we  pay  half  the  rent.  You  shall 
not  turn  us  out.  Take  away  the  pictures,  decide  on  the 
ownership  of  the  various  articles,  but  here  my  client  stops — 
'my  boy.'" 

"  I  shall  go  out !  "  the  old  musician  suddenly  said.  He  had 
recovered  energy  during  the  odious  dispute. 


406  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

''You  had  better,"  said  Fraisier.  "Your  course  will  save 
expense  to  you,  for  your  contention  would  not  be  made  good. 
The  lease  is  evidence " 

*'  The  lease  !  the  lease  !  "  cried  Villemot,  "  it  is  a  question 
of  good  faith " 

"  That  could  only  be  proved  as  in  a  criminal  case,  by  calling 
witnesses.  Do  you  mean  to  plunge  into  experts'  fees  and  veri- 
fications, and  orders  to  show  cause  why  judgment  should  not 
be  given,  and  law  proceedings  generally?  " 

"No,  no!"  cried  Schmucke  in  dismay.  "I  shall  turn 
out ;  I  am  used  to  it -" 

In  practice  Schmucke  was  a  philosopher,  an  unconscious 
cynic,  so  greatly  had  he  simplified  his  life.  Two  pairs  of 
shoes,  a  pair  of  boots,  a  couple  of  suits  of  clothes,  a  dozen 
shirts,  a  dozen  bandana  handkerchiefs,  four  waistcoats,  a 
superb  pipe  given  to  him  by  Pons,  with  an  embroidered  to- 
bacco-pouch— these  were  all  his  belongings.  Overwrought 
by  a  fever  of  indignation,  he  went  into  his  room  and  piled  his 
clothes  upon  a  chair. 

"All  dese  are  mine,"  he  said,  with  simplicity  worthy  of 
Cincinnatus.     "  Der  biano  is  also  mine." 

Fraisier  turned  to  La  Sauvage.  "  Madame,  get  help,"  he 
said  ;  "  take  that  piano  out  and  put  it  on  the  landing." 

"You  are  too  rough  into  the  bargain,"  said  Villemot,  ad- 
dressing Fraisier.  "The  justice  of  the  peace  gives  orders 
here;  he  is  supreme." 

"There  are  valuables  in  the  room,"  put  in  the  clerk. 

"And  beside,"  added  the  justice  of  the  peace,  "Monsieur 
Schmucke  is  going  out  of  his  own  free  will." 

"  Did  any  one  ever  see  such  a  client !  "  -Villemot  cried  in- 
dignantly, turning  upon  Schmucke,  "You  are  as  limp  as  a 
rag " 

"Vat  dos  it  matter  vere  von  dies?"  Schmucke  said  as  he 
went  out.  "  Dese  men  haf  tigers'  faces.  I  shall  send  som- 
pody  to  vetch  mein  bits  of  dings." 


COUSIN  PONS.  407 

"  Where  are  you  going,  sir?  " 

"  Vere  it  shall  blease  Gott,"  returned  Pons'  universal  legatee 
with  supreme  indifference. 

"Send  me  word,"  said  Villemot. 

Fraisier  turned  to  the  head-clerk,  "Go  after  him,"  he 
whispered. 

Mme.  Cantinet  was  left  in  charge  with  a  provision  of  fifty 
francs  paid  out  of  the  money  that  they  found.  The  justice  of 
the  peace  looked  out ;  there  Schmucke  stood  in  the  courtyard 
looking  up  at  the  windows  for  the  last  time. 

"You  have  found  a  man  of  butter,"  remarked  the  justice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fraisier,  "  yes.  The  thing  is  as  good  as  done. 
You  need  not  hesitate  to  marry  your  granddaughter  to  Pou- 
lain  ;  he  will  be  head-surgeon  at  the  Quinze-Vingts."* 

"We  shall  see.  Good-day,  Monsieur  Fraisier,"  said  the 
justice  of  the  peace  with  a  friendly  air. 

"There  is  a  man  with  a  head  on  his  shoulders,"  remarked 
the  justice's  clerk.      "  That  dog  will  go  a  long  way." 

By  this  time  it  was  eleven  o'clock.  The  old  German  went 
like  an  automaton  down  the  road  along  which  Pons  and  he 
had  so  often  walked  together.  Wherever  he  went  he  saw 
Pons,  he  almost  thought  that  Pons  was  by  his  side  ;  and  so 
he  reached  the  theatre  just  as  his  friend  Topinard  was  coming 
out  of  it  after  a  morning  spent  in  cleaning  the  lamps  and 
meditating  on  the  manager's  tyranny. 

"  Oh,  shoost  der  ding  for  me  !  "  cried  Schmucke,  stopping 
his  acquaintance.  "  Dopinart !  you  haf  a  lodging  somveres, 
eh?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  A  home  off  your  own  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Are  you  villing  to  take  me  for  ein  poarder?  Oh  !  I  shall 
bay  ver'  veil  ;  I  haf  nine  hundert  vrancs  of  inkomm,  und — I 
haf  not  ver'  long  to  lif     I  shall  gif  no  drouble  vatefer.     I 

*  The  Asylum  founded  by  St.  Louis  for  three  hundred  bUnd  people. 


408  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

can  eat  onydings — I  only  vant  to  shmoke  mein  bipe.  Und — 
you  are  der  only  von  dat  haf  shed  a  tear  for  Bons,  mit  me  ; 
und  so,  I  lof  you." 

*'  I  should  be  very  glad,  sir ;  but,  to  begin  with,  Monsieur 
Gaudissart  has  given  me  a  proper  wigging 

"That  is  one  way  of  saying  that  he  combed  my  hair  for 
me." 

^^  Combed  your  hair  ? ' ' 

"  He  gave  me  a  scolding  for  meddling  in  your  affairs.  So 
we  must  be  very  careful  if  you  come  to  me.  But  I  doubt 
whether  you  will  stay  when  you  have  seen  the  place ;  you  do 
not  know  how  we  poor  devils  live." 

"  I  should  rader  der  boor  home  of  a  goot-hearted  man  dot 
haf  mourned  Bons,  dan  der  Duileries  mit  men  dot  haf  ein 
tiger's  face.  I  haf  shoost  left  tigers  in  Bons'  house ;  dey  vill 
eat  up  everydings " 

"  Come  with  me,  sir,  and  you  shall  see.  But — well,  any- 
how, there  is  a  garret.  Let  us  see  what  Madame  Topinard 
says. ' ' 

Schmucke  followed  like  a  sheep,  while  Topinard  led  the 
way  into  one  of  the  squalid  districts  which  might  be  called 
the  cancers  of  Paris — a  spot  known  as  the  Cit6  Bordin.  It  is 
a  slum  out  of  the  Rue  de  Bondy,  a  double  row  of  houses  run 
up  by  the  speculative  builder,  under  the  shadow  of  the  huge 
mass  of  the  Porte  Saint-Martin  theatre.  The  pavement  at  the 
higher  end  lies  below  the  level  of  the  Rue  de  Bondy ;  at  the 
lower  it  falls  away  toward  the  Rue  des  Mathurins  du  Temple. 
Follow  its  course  and  you  find  that  it  terminates  in  another 
slum  running  at  right  angles  to  the  first — the  Cite  Bordin  is, 
in  fact,  a  T-shaped  blind  alley.  Its  two  streets  thus  arranged 
contain  some  thirty  houses,  six  or  seven  stories  high  ;  and 
every  story,  and  every  room  in  every  story,  is  a  workshop  and 
a  warehouse  for  goods  of  every  sort  and  description,  for  this 
wart  upon  the  face  of  Paris  is  a  miniature  Faubourg  Saint- 


COUSIN  PONS.  409 

Antoine.  Cabinet-work  and  brass-work,  theatrical  costumes, 
blown  glass,  painted  porcelain — all  the  various  fancy  goods 
known  as  V article  Paris  are  made  here.  Dirty  and  produc- 
tive like  commerce,  always  full  of  traflSc — foot-passengers, 
vans,  and  wagons — the  Cite  Bordin  is  an  unsavory-looking 
neighborhood,  with  a  seething  population  in  keeping  with  the 
squalid  surroundings.  It  is  a  not  unintelligent  artisan  popu- 
lation, though  the  whole  power  of  the  intellect  is  absorbed  by 
the  day's  manual  labor.  Topinard,  like  every  other  inhab- 
itant of  the  Cite  Bordin,  lived  in  it  for  the  sake  of  the  com- 
paratively low  rent,  the  cause  of  its  existence  and  prosperity. 
His  sixth-floor  lodging,  in  the  second  house  to  the  left,  looked 
out  upon  the  belt  of  green  garden,  still  in  existence,  at  the 
back  of  three  or  four  large  mansions  in  the  Rue  de  Bondy. 

Topinard's  apartment  consisted  of  a  kitchen  and  two  bed- 
rooms. The  first  was  a  nursery  with  two  little  deal  bedsteads 
and  a  cradle  in  it,  the  second  was  the  bedroom,  and  the 
kitchen  did  duty  as  a  dining-room.  Above,  reached  by  a 
short  ladder,  known  among  builders  as  a  *' trap-ladder,"  there 
was  a  kind  of  garret,  six  feet  high,  with  a  sash-window  let 
into  the  roof.  This  room,  given  as  a  servant's  bed-room, 
raised  the  Topinards'  establishment  from  mere  "rooms"  to 
the  dignity  of  a  tenement,  and  the  rent  to  a  corresponding 
sum  of  four  hundred  francs.  An  arched  lobby,  lighted  from 
the  kitchen  by  a  small  round  window,  did  duty  as  an  ante- 
chamber, and  filled  the  space  between  the  bedroom,  the 
kitchen,  and  house  doors — three  doors  in  all.  The  rooms 
were  paved  with  bricks,  and  hung  with  a  hideous  wall-paper 
at  six  sous  a  piece ;  the  chimneypieces  that  adorned  them 
were  of  the  kind  called  capucines — a  shelf  set  on  a  couple  of 
brackets  painted  to  resemble  wood.  Here  in  these  three 
rooms  dwelt  five  human  beings,  three  of  them  children.  Any 
one,  therefore,  can  imagine  how  the  walls  were  covered  with 
scores  and  scratches  so  far  as  an  infant  arm  can  reach. 

Rich  people  can  scarcely  realize  the  extreme  simplicity  of 


410  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

a  poor  man's  kitchen.  A  Dutch-oven,  a  kettle,  a  gridiron,  a 
saucepan,  two  or  three  dumpy  cooking-pots,  and  a  frying-pan 
— that  was  all.  All  the  crockery  in  the  place,  white  and 
brown  earthenware  together,  was  not  worth  more  than  twelve 
francs.  Dinner  was  served  on  the  kitchen  table,  which  with 
a  couple  of  chairs  and  a  couple  of  stools  completed  the  furni- 
ture. The  stock  of  fuel  was  kept  under  the  stove  with  a 
funnel-shaped  chimney,  and  in  a  corner  stood  the  wash-tub 
in  which  the  family  linen  lay,  often  steeping  over-night  in 
soapsuds.  The  nursery  ceiling  was  covered  with  clothes- 
lines, the  walls  were  variegated  with  theatrical  placards  and 
woodcuts  from  newspapers  or  advertisements.  Evidently  the 
eldest  boy,  the  owner  of  the  school-books  stacked  in  a  corner, 
was  left  in  charge  while  his  parents  were  absent  at  the  theatre. 
In  many  a  French  workingman's  family,  so  soon  as  a  child 
reaches  the  age  of  six  or  seven,  it  plays  the  part  of  mother  to 
younger  sisters  and  brothers. 

From  this  bare  outline,  it  may  be  imagined  that  the 
Topinards,  to  use  the  hackneyed  formula,  were  "  poor  but 
honest."  Topinard  himself  was  verging  on  forty;  Mme. 
Topinard,  once  leader  of  a  chorus — mistress  too,  it  was  said, 
of  Gaudissart's  predecessor — was  certainly  thirty  years  old. 
Lolotte  had  been  a  fine  woman  in  her  day ;  but  the  misfor- 
tunes of  the  previous  management  had  told  upon  her  to  such 
an  extent  that  it  had  seemed  to  her  to  be  both  advisable  and 
necessary  to  contract  a  stage-marriage  with  Topinard.  She 
did  not  doubt  but  that,  as  soon  as  they  could  muster  the  sum 
of  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  her  Topinard  would  perform 
his  vows  agreeably  to  the  civil  law,  were  it  only  to  legitimize 
the  three  children,  whom  he  worshiped.  .  Meantime,  Mme. 
Topinard  sewed  for  the  theatre  wardrobe  in  the  morning ;  and 
with  prodigious  effort,  the  brave  couple  made  nine  hundred 
francs  per  annum  between  them. 

"One  more  flight!"  Topinard  had   twice  repeated  since 
they  reached  the  third  floor.     Schmucke,  engulfed  in  his  sor- 


COUSIN  PONS.  411 

row,  did  not  so  much  as  know  whether  he  was  going  up  or 
coming  down. 

In  another  minute  Topinard  had  opened  the  door  ;  but 
before  he  appeared  in  his  white  workman's  blouse  Mme.  Topi- 
nard's  voice  rang  from  the  kitchen — 

*'  There,  there  !  children,  be  quiet  !  here  comes  papa  !  " 

But  the  children,  no  doubt,  did  as  they  pleased  with  papa, 
for  the  oldest  member  of  the  little  family,  sitting  astride  a 
broomstick,  continued  to  command  a  charge  of  cavalry  (a 
reminiscence  of  the  Cirque-Olympique),  the  second  blew  a 
tin  trumpet,  while  the  third  did  its  best  to  keep  up  with  the 
main  body  of  the  army.  Their  mother  was  at  work  on  a 
theatrical  costume, 

"  Be  quiet  !  or  I  shall  slap  you  !  "  shouted  Topinard  in  a 
formidable  voice;  then  in  an  aside  for  Schmucke's  benefit — 
"Always  have  to  say  that !  Here,  little  one,"  he  continued, 
addressing  his  Lolotte,  "  this  is  Monsieur  Schmucke,  poor 
Monsieur  Pons'  friend.  He  does  not  know  where  to  go,  and 
he  would  like  to  live  with  us.  I  told  him  that  we  were  not 
very  spick  and  span  up  here,  that  we  lived  on  the  sixth  floor, 
and  had  only  the  garret  to  offer  him ;  but  it  was  no  use,  he 
would  come " 

Schmucke  had  taken  the  chair  which  the  woman  brought 
him,  and  the  children,  stricken  with  sudden  shyness,  had 
gathered  together  to  give  the  stranger  that  mute,  earnest,  so 
soon-finished  scrutiny  characteristic  of  childhood.  For  a 
child,  like  a  dog,  is  wont  to  judge  by  instinct  rather  than 
reason.  Schmucke  looked  up;  his  eyes  rested  on  that  charm- 
ing little  picture ;  he  saw  the  performer  on  the  tin  trumpet,  a 
little  five-year-old  maiden  with  wonderful  golden  hair. 

"She  looks  like  ein  liddle  German  girl,"  said  Schmucke, 
holding  out  his  arms  to  the  child. 

"  Monsieur  will  not  be  very  comfortable  here,"  said  Mme. 
Topinard.  "  I  would  propose  that  he  should  have  our  room, 
at  once,  but  I  am  obliged  to  have  the  children  near  me." 


412  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

She  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  bade  Schmucke 
come  in.  Such  splendor  as  their  abode  possessed  was  all  con- 
centrated here.  Blue  calico  curtains  with  a  white  fringe  hung 
from  the  mahogany  bedstead  and  adorned  the  window;  the 
chest  of  drawers,  bureau,  and  chairs,  though  all  made  of 
mahogany,  were  neatly  kept.  The  clock  and  candlesticks  on 
the  mantel  were  evidently  the  gift  of  the  bankrupt  manager, 
whose  portrait,  a  truly  frightful  performance  of  Pierre  Gras- 
sou's,  looked  down  upon  the  chest  of  drawers.  The  children 
tried  to  peep  in  at  the  forbidden  glories. 

"Monsieur  might  be  comfortable  in  here,"  said  their 
mother. 

"  No,  no,"  Schmucke  replied.  "  Eh  !  I  haf  not  ver'  long 
to  lif,  I  only  vant  a  corner  to  die  in." 

The  door  was  closed,  and  the  three  went  up  to  the  garret. 
"  Dis  is  der  ding  for  me,"  Schmucke  cried  at  once.  "  Pefore 
I  lifd  mit  Bons,  I  vas  nefer  better  lodged." 

"  Very  well.  A  truckle-bed,  a  couple  of  mattresses,  a 
bolster,  a  pillow,  a  couple  of  chairs,  and  a  table — that  is  all 
that  you  need  to  buy.  That  will  not  ruin  you — it  may  cost  a 
hundred  and  fifty  francs,  with  the  crockeryware  and  strip  of 
carpet  for  the  bedside." 

Everything  was  settled — save  the  money,  which  was  not 
forthcoming,  Schmucke  saw  that  his  new  friends  were  very 
poor,  and,  recollecting  that  the  theatre  was  only  a  few  steps 
away,  it  naturally  occurred  to  him  to  apply  to  the  manager 
for  his  salary.  He  went  at  once,  and  found  Gaudissart  in  his 
office.  Gaudissart  received  him  with  the  somewhat  stiffly 
polite  manner  which  he  reserved  for  professionals.  Schmucke's 
demand  for  a  month's  salary  took  him  by  surprise,  but  on 
inquiry  he  found  that  it  was  due. 

"Oh,  confound  it,  my  good  man,  a  German  can  always 
count,  even  if  he  has  tears  in  his  eyes.  I  thought  that  you 
would  have  taken  the  thousand  francs  that  I  sent  you  into 
account,  as  a  final  year's  salary,  and  that  we  were  quits." 


COUSIN  PONS.  413 

"  We  haf  receifed  nodings,"  said  Schmucke  ;  "  und  gif  I 
kom  to  you,  it  ees  because  I  am  in  der  shtreet,  und  haf  not 
ein  benny.     How  did  you  send  us  der  ponus  ?  " 

"  By  your  portress." 

"By  Montame  Zipod ! "  exclaimed  Schmucke.  "She 
killed  Bons,  she  robbed  him,  she  sold  him — she  tried  to  purn 
his  vill — she  is  a  pad  creature,  a  monster?  " 

"But,  my  good  man,  how  come  you  to  be  out  in  the  street 
without  a  roof  over  your  head  or  a  penny  in  your  pocket, 
when  you  are  the  sole  heir  ?  That  does  not  necessarily  follow, 
as  the  saying  is." 

"  They  haf  put  me  out  at  der  door,  I  am  a  voreigner,  I 
know  nodings  of  die  laws." 

"  Poor  man  !  "  thought  Gaudissart,  foreseeing  the  probable 
end  of  the  unequal  contest.  "Listen,"  he  began,  "  do  you 
know  what  you  ought  to  do  in  this  business?  " 

"  I  haf  ein  man  of  pizness  !  " 

"  Very  good,  come  to  terms  at  once  with  the  next-of-kin  ; 
make  them  pay  you  a  lump  sum  of  money  down  and  an  annuity, 
and  you  can  live  in  peace " 

"  I  ask  noding  more." 

"Very  well.  Let  me  arrange  it  for  you,"  said  Gaudissart. 
Fraisier  had  told  him  the  whole  story  only  yesterday,  and  he 
thought  that  he  saw  his  way  to  making  interest  out  of  the  case 
with  the  young  Vicomtesse  Popinot  and  her  mother.  He 
would  finish  a  dirty  piece  of  work,  and  some  day  he  would  be 
a  privy  councilor  at  least ;  or  so  he  told  himself. 

"  I  gif  you  full  powers." 

"Well.  Let  us  see.  Now,  to  begin  with,"  said  Gaudis- 
sart, Napoleon  of  the  boulevard    theatres,  "  to   begin  with, 

here  are  a  hundred  crowns "  (he  took  fifteen  louis  from 

his  purse  and  handed  them  to  Schmucke). 

"That  is  yours,  on  account  of  six  months'  salary.  If  you 
leave  the  theatre,  you  can  repay  me  the  money.  Now  for 
your  budget.     What  are  your  yearly  expenses  ?     How  much 


414  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

do  you  want  to  be  comfortable  ?     Come,  now,  scheme  out  a 
life  for  a  Sardanapalus " 

"  I  only  need  two  suits  of  clothes,  von  for  der  vinter,  von 
for  der  sommer." 

"Three  hundred  francs,"  said  Gaudissart. 

"Shoes.     Vourbairs." 

"Sixty  francs." 

"Shtockings " 

"  A  dozen  pairs — thirty-six  francs." 

"  Half  a  tozzen  shirts." 

"  Six  calico  shirts,  twenty-four  francs  \  as  many  linen  shirts, 
forty-eight  francs ;  let  us  say  seventy-two.  That  makes  four 
hundred  and  sixty-eight  francs  altogether.  Say  five  hundred 
including  cravats  and  pocket-handkerchiefs  ;  a  hundred  francs 
for  the  laundress — six  hundred.  And  now,  how  much  for 
your  board — three  francs  a  day  ?  " 

"  No,  it  ees  too  much." 

"  After  all,  you  want  hats  ;  that  brings  it  to  fifteen  hundred. 
Five  hundred  more  for  rent ;  that  makes  two  thousand.  If  I 
can  get  two  thousand  francs  per  annum  for  you,  are  you 
willing? Good  securities." 

"Und  mein  tobacco." 

"  Two  thousand  four  hundred,  then.  Oh  !  Papa  Schmucke, 
do  you  call  that  tobacco  ?  Very  well,  the  tobacco  shall  be 
given  in.  So  that  is  two  thousand  four  hundred  francs  per 
annum." 

"  Dat  ees  not  all !     I  should  like  some  monny." 

"  Pin-money  !  Just  so  !  Oh,  these  Germans  !  And  calls 
himself  an  innocent,  the  old  Robert  Macaire !  "  thought 
Gaudissart.  Aloud  he  said,  ''How  much  do  you  want? 
But  this  must  be  the  last." 

"  It  ees  to  bay  a  zacred  debt." 

"A  debt !  "  said  Gaudissart  to  himself.  "  What  a  shark  it 
is !  He  is  worse  than  an  eldest  son.  He  will  invent  a  bill  or 
two  next !     We  must  cut  him  short.     This  Fraisier  canijot 


COUSIN  PONS.  415 

take  large  views.     What  debt  is  this,  my  good  man  ?     Speak 
out.  ' 

"  Dere  vas  but  von  man  dot  haf  mourned  Bons  mit  me. 
He  haf  a  tear  liddle  girl  mit  wunderschones  haar  ;  it  vas  as  if 
I  saw  mine  boor  Deutschland  dot  I  should  nefer  haf  left. 
Baris  is  no  blace  for  die  Germans  ;  dey  laugh  at  dem  "  (with 
a  little  nod  as  he  spoke,  and  the  air  of  a  man  who  knows 
something  of  life  in  this  world  below). 

"  He  is  off  his  head,"  Gaudissart  said  to  himself.  And  a 
sudden  pang  of  pity  for  this  poor  innocent  before  him  brought 
a  tear  to  the  manager's  eyes. 

"Ah  !  you  understand,  Mennesir  le  Directeur  !  Ver'  goot. 
Dat  man  mit  die  liddle  laughter  is  Dobinard,  vat  tidies  der 
orchestra  una  lights  die  lamps.  Bons  vas  fery  fond  of  him, 
und  helped  him.  He  vas  der  only  von  dat  accombanied  mein 
only  frient  to  die  church  und  to  die  grafe.  I  vant  dree 
tausend  vrancs  for  him,  und  dree  tausend  for  die  liddle  von 
dat " 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  Gaudissart  to  himself. 

Rough,  self-made  man  though  he  was,  he  felt  touched  by 
this  nobleness  of  nature,  by  a  gratitude  for  a  mere  trifle,  as 
the  world  views  it ;  though  for  the  eyes  of  this  divine  inno- 
cence the  trifle,  like  Bossuet's  cup  of  water,  was  worth  more 
than  the  victories  of  great  captains.  Beneath  all  Gandissart's 
vanity,  beneath  the  fierce  desire  to  succeed  in  life  at  all  costs, 
to  rise  to  the  social  level  of  his  old  friend  Popinot,  there  lay  a 
warm  heart  and  a  kindly  nature.  Wherefore  he  canceled  his 
too  hasty  judgments  and  went  over  to  Schmucke's  side. 

"  You  shall  have  it  all  !  But  I  will  do  better  still,  my  dear 
Schmucke.     Topinard  is  a  good  sort " 

"Yes.  I  haf  chust  peen  to  see  him  in  his  boor  home,  vera 
he  ees  happy  mit  his  children " 

"■  I  will  give  him  the  cashier's  place.  Old  Baudrand  is 
going  to  leave." 

"Ah  !  Gott  pless  you  !"  cried  Schmucke. 


416  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

*'  Very  well,  my  good,  kind  fellow,  meet  me  at  Berthier's 
office  about  four  o'clock  this  afternoon.  Everything  shall  be 
ready,  and  you  shall  be  secured  from  want  for  the  rest  of  your 
days.  You  shall  draw  your  six  thousand  francs,  and  you  shall 
have  the  same  salary  with  Garangeot  that  you  used  to  have 
with  Pons." 

"No,"  Schmucke  answered.  "I  shall  not  lif.  I  have  no 
heart  for  anydings  j  I  feel  that  I  am  attacked " 

"  Poor  lamb  !  "  Gaudissart  muttered  to  himself  as  the  Ger- 
man took  his  leave.  "  But,  after  all,  one  lives  on  mutton  ; 
and,  as  the  sublime  Beranger  says :  '  Poor  sheep !  you  were 
made  to  be  shorn ; '  "  and  he  hummed  the  political  squib  by 
way  of  giving  vent  to  his  feelings.  Then  he  rang  for  the 
office-boy. 

"  Call  my  carriage,"  he  said. 

**  Rue  de  Hanovre,"  he  told  the  coachman. 

The  man  of  ambitions  by  this  time  had  reappeared ;  he  saw 
the  way  to  the  Council  of  State  lying  straight  before  him. 

And  Schmucke  ?  He  was  busy  buying  flowers  and  cakes  for 
Topinard's  children,  and  went  home  almost  joyously. 

**  I  am  gifing  die  bresents "  he  said,  and  he  smiled.     It 

was  the  first  smile  for  three  months,  but  any  one  who  had 
seen  Schmucke's  face  would  have  shuddered  to  see  it  there. 

**  But  dere  is  ein  condition " 

"It  is  too  kind  of  you,  sir,"  said  the  mother. 

"De  liddle  girl  shall  gif  me  a  kiss  and  put  die  flowers  in 
her  hair,  like  die  liddle  German  maidens " 

"Olga,  child,  do  just  as  the  gentleman  wishes,"  said  the 
mother,  assuming  an  air  of  discipline. 

"Do  not  scold  mein  liddle  German  girl,"  implored 
Schmucke.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  little  one  was  his  dear 
Germany.     Topinard  came  in. 

"  Three  porters  are  bringing  up  the  whole  bag  of  tricks," 
he  said. 


COUSIN  PONS.  417 

'•  Oh  !  here  are  two  hundred  vrancs  to  bay  for  eferydings," 
said  Schmucke.  "  But,  mein  frient,  your  Montame  Dobinard 
is  ver'  nice  ;  you  shall  marry  her,  is  it  not  so?  I  shall  gif  you 
tausend  crowns,  and  die  liddle  von  shall  haf  tausend  crowns 
for  her  toury,  and  you  shall  infest  it  in  her  name.  Und  you 
are  not  to  pe  ein  zuper  any  more — you  are  to  pe  de  cashier  at 
de  teatre " 

"//  instead  of  old  Baudrand?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  told  you  so?" 

*'  Mennesir  Gautissart  1  ' 

•'  Oh  !  it  is  enough  to  send  one  wild  with  joy  !  Eh  !  I  say, 
Rosalie,  what  a  rumpus  there  will  be  at  the  theatre  !  But  it  is 
not  possible " 

"  Our  benefactor  must  not  live  in  a  garret " 


"  Pshaw  !  for  die  few  tays  dat  I  haf  to  live,  ii  ees  fery  koni- 
fortable,"  said  Schmucke.  "  Goot-py ;  I  am  going  to  der 
zemetery,  to  see  vat  dey  haf  don  mit  Bons,  und  to  order  som 
flowers  for  his  grafe." 

Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  was  consumed  by  the  liveliest 
apprehensions.  At  a  council  held  with  Fraisier,  Berthier,  and 
Godeschal,  the  two  last-named  authorities  gave  it  as  their 
opinion  that  it  was  hopeless  to  dispute  a  will  drawn  up  by  two 
notaries  in  the  presence  of  two  witnesses,  so  precisely  was  the 
instrument  worded  by  Leopold  Mannequin.  Honest  Godes- 
chal said  that  even  if  Schmucke's  own  legal  adviser  should 
succeed  in  deceiving  him,  he  would  finci  out  the  truth  at  last, 
if  it  were  only  from  some  officious  barrister,  the  gentlemen  of 
the  robe  being  wont  to  perform  such  acts  of  generosity  and 
disinterestedness  by  way  of  self-advertisement.  And  the  two 
officials  took  their  leave  of  the  presidente  with  a  parting  cau- 
tion against  Fraisier,  concerning  whom  they  had  naturally 
made  inquiries. 

At  that  very  moment  Fraisier,  straiglit  from  the  affixing  of 
27 


418  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

the  seals  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  was  waiting  for  an  interview 
with  Mme.  de  Marville.  Berthier  and  Godeschal  had  suggested 
that  he  should  be  shown  into  the  study ;  the  whole  affair  was 
too  dirty  for  the  president  to  look  into  (to  use  their  own  ex- 
pression), and  they  wished  to  give  Mme.  de  Marville  their 
opinion  in  Fraisier's  absence. 

"Well,  madame,  where  are  these  gentlemen?"  asked  Frai- 
sier,  admitted  to  audience. 

"  They  are  gone.  They  advise  me  to  give  up,"  said  Mme. 
de  Marville. 

"  Give  up  !  "  repeated  Fraisier,  suppressed  fury  in  his  voice. 
"  Give  up  !     Listen  to  this,  madame  : 

"  'At  the  request  of and  so  forth  (I  will  omit  the  for- 
malities)   '  Whereas,  there  has  been  deposited  in  the  hands 

of  M.  le  President  of  the  Court  of  First  Instance,  a  will  drawn 
up  by  Maitres  Leopold  Hannequin  and  Alexandre  Crottat, 
notaries  of  Paris,  and  in  the  presence  of  two  witnesses,  the 
Sieurs  Brunner  and  Schwab,  aliens  domiciled  at  Paris,  and 
by  the  said  will  the  Sieur  Pons,  deceased,  has  bequeathed  his 
property  to  one  Sieur  Schmucke,  a  German,  to  the  prejudice 
of  his  natural  heirs  : 

"  <■  Whereas,  the  applicant  undertakes  to  prove  that  the  said 
will  was  obtained  under  undue  influence  and  by  unlawful 
means  ;  and  persons  of  credit  are  prepared  to  show  that  it  was 
the  testator's  intention  to  leave  his  fortune  to  Mile.  Cecile, 
daughter  of  the  aforesaid  Sieur  de  Marville,  and  the  applicant 
can  show  that  the  said  will  was  extorted  from  the  testator's 
weakness,  he  being  unaccountable  for  his  actions  at  the  time. 

"  'Whereas  as  the  Sieur  Schmucke,  to  obtain  a  will  in  his 
favor,  sequestrated  the  testator,  and  prevented  the  family 
from  approaching  the  deceased  during  his  last  illness;  and 
his  subsequent  notorious  ingratitude  was  of  a  nature  to  scan- 
dalize the  house  and  residents  in  the  quarter  who  chanced  to 
witness  it  when  attending  the  funeral  of  the  porter  at  the  testa- 
tor's place  of  abode : 


COUSIN  PONS.  419 

"  Whereas  as  still  more  serious  charges,  of  which  appli- 
cant is  collecting  proofs,  will  be  formally  made  before  their 
worships  the  judges : 

"  '  I,  the  undersigned  Registrar  of  the  Court,  et  al. ,  on  behalf 
of  the  aforesaid,  etc.,  have  summoned  the  Sieur  Schmucke, 
pleading,  etc.,  to  appear  before  their  worships  the  judges  of 
the  first  chamber  of  the  Tribunal,  and  to  be  present  when 
application  is  made  that  the  will  received  by  Maitres  Hanne- 
quin  and  Crottat,  being  evidently  obtained  by  undue  influence, 
shall  be  regarded  as  null  and  void  in  law ;  and  I,  the  under- 
signed, on  behalf  of  the  aforesaid,  etc.,  have  likewise  given 
notice  of  protest,  should  the  Sieur  Schmucke  as  universal 
legatee  make  application  for  an  order  to  be  put  into  posses- 
sion of  the  estate,  seeing  that  the  applicant  opposes  such  order, 
and  makes  objection  by  his  application  bearing  date  of  to- 
day, of  which  a  copy  has  been  duly  deposited  with  the  Sieur 
Schmucke,  costs  being  charged  to etc.,  etc' 

"  I  know  the  man,  Madame  la  Presidente.  He  will  come 
to  terms  as  soon  as  he  reads  this  little  love-letter.  He  will 
consult  Tabareau,  and  Tabareau  will  advise  him  to  take  our 
terms.  Are  you  going  to  give  the  thousand  crowns  per 
annum  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  only  wish  I  were  paying  the  first  installment 
now." 

"It  will  be  done  in  three  days.  The  summons  will  come 
down  upon  him  while  he  is  stupefied  with  grief,  for  the  poor 
soul  regrets  Pons  and  is  taking  the  death  to  heart." 

"Can  the  application  be  withdrawn  ?"   inquired  the  lady. 

"  Certainly,  madame.  You  can  withdraw  at  any  time  you 
may  please." 

"  Very  well,  monsieur,  let  it  be  so — go  on  !  Yes,  the  pur- 
chase of  land  that  you  have  arranged  for  me  is  worth  the 
trouble;  and,  beside,  I  have  managed  Vitel's  business — he  is 
to  retire,  and  you  must  pay  Vitel's  sixty  thousand  francs  out 
of  Pons'  property.     So,  you  see,  you  must  succeed  " 


420  THE  POOR  PARENTS. 

"  Have  you  Vitel's  resignation  ?  " 

"Yes,  monsieur.  Monsieur  Vitel  has  put  himself  in  Mon- 
sieur de  Marville's  hands." 

"Very  good,  madame.  I  have  already  saved  you  sixty 
thousand  francs  which  I  expected  to  give  to  that  vile  creature 
Madame  Cibot.  But  I  still  require  the  tobacconist's  license 
for  the  woman  Sauvage,  and  an  appointment  to  the  vacant 
place  of  head-physician  at  the  Quinze-Vingts  for  my  friend 
Poulain." 

"Agreed — it  is  all  arranged." 

"  Very  well.  There  is  no  more  to  be  said.  Every  one  is 
for  you  in  this  business,  even  Gaudissart,  the  manager  of  the 
theatre.  I  went  to  look  him  up  yesterday,  and  he  under- 
took to  crush  the  workman  who  seemed  likely  to  give  us 
trouble." 

"  Oh,  I  know  Monsieur  Gaudissart  is  devoted  to  the  Popi- 
nots." 

Fraisier  went  out.  Unluckily,  he  missed  Gaudissart,  and 
the  fatal  summons  was  served  forthwith. 

If  all  covetous  minds  will  sympathize  with  the  presidente, 
all  honest  folk  will  turn  in  abhorrence  from  her  joy  when 
Gaudissart  came  twenty  minutes  later  to  report  his  conversa- 
tion with  poor  Schmucke.  She  gave  her  full  approval ;  she 
was  obliged  beyond  all  expression  for  the  thoughtful  way  in 
which  the  manager  relieved  her  of  any  remaining  scruples 
by  observations  which  seemed  to  her  to  be  very  sensible  and 
just. 

"  I  thought  as  I  came,  Madame  la  Presidente,  that  the  poor 
devil  would  not  know  what  to  do  with  the  money.  'Tis  a 
patriarchally  simple  nature.  He  is  a  child,  he  is  a  German, 
he  ought  to  be  stuffed  and  put  in  a  glass  case  like  a  waxen 
image.  Which  is  to  say  that,  in  my  opinion,  he  is  quite 
puzzled  enough  already  with  his  income  of  two  thousand  five 
hundred  francs,  and  here  you  are  provoking  him  mto  extrava- 
gance  " 


COUSIN  PONS.  421 

"It  is  very  generous  of  him  to  wish  to  enrich  the  poor 
fellow  who  regrets  the  loss  of  our  cousin,"  pronounced  the 
presidente.  "For  my  own  part,  I  am  sorry  for  the  little 
squabble  that  estranged  Monsieur  Pons  and  me.  If  he  had 
come  back  again,  all  would  have  been  forgiven.  If  you  only 
knew  how  my  husband  misses  him  !  Monsieur  de  Marville 
received  no  notice  of  the  death,  and  was  in  despair ;  family 
claims  are  sacred  for  him,  he  would  have  gone  to  the  service 
and  the  interment,  and  I  myself  should  have  been  at  the 
mass " 

"Very  well,  fair  lady,"  said  Gaudissart.  "Be  so  good  as 
to  have  the  documents  drawn  up,  and  at  four  o'clock  I  will 
bring  this  German  to  you.  Please  remember  me  to  your 
charming  daughter  the  vicomtesse,  and  ask  her  to  tell  my 
illustrious  friend  the  great  statesman,  her  good  and  excellent 
father-in-law,  how  deeply  I  am  devoted  to  him  and  his,  and 
ask  him  to  continue  his  valued  favors.  I  owe  my  life  to  his 
uncle  the  judge,  and  my  success  in  life  to  him  ;  and  I  should 
wish  to  be  bound  to  both  you  and  your  daughter  by  the  high 
esteem  which  links  us  with  persons  cf  rank  and  influence.  I 
wish  to  leave  the  theatre  and  become  a  serious  person." 

"As  you  are  already,  monsieur  !  "  said  the  presidente. 

"Adorable  !  "  returned  Gaudissart,  kissing  the  lady's  shriv- 
eled fingers. 

At  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  several  people  were  gathered 
together  at  Berthier's  office :  Fraisier,  arch-concocter  of  the 
whole  scheme,  Tabareau,  appearing  on  behalf  of  Schmucke, 
and  Schmucke  himself.  Gaudissart  had  come  with  him. 
Fraisier  had  been  careful  to  spread  out  the  money  on  Ber- 
thier's desk,  and  so  dazzled  was  Schmucke  by  the  sight  of 
the  six  thousand-franc  bank-notes  for  which  he  had  asked, 
and  six  hundred  francs  for  the  first  quarter's  allowance,  that 
he  paid  no  heed  whatsoever  to  the  reading  of  the  document. 
Poor  man,  he  was  scarcely  in  full  possession  of  his  faculties, 
shaken  as  they  had  already  been  by  so  many  shocks.    Gaudis- 


422  THE    POOR   PARENTS. 

sart  had  snatched  him  up  on  his  return  from  the  cemetery, 
where  he  had  been  talking  with  Pons,  promising  to  join  him 
soon — very  soon.  So  Schmucke  did  not  listen  to  the  pre- 
amble in  which  it  was  set  forth  that  Maitre  Tabaraeau,  bailiff, 
was  acting  as  his  proxy,  and  that  the  presidente,  in  the  in- 
terests of  her  daughter,  was  taking  legal  proceedings  against 
him.  Altogether,  in  that  preamble  the  German  played  a  sorry 
part,  but  he  put  his  name  to  the  document,  and  thereby  ad- 
mitted the  truth  of  Fraisier's  abominable  allegations ;  and  so 
joyous  was  he  over  receiving  the  money  for  the  Topinards,  so 
glad  to  bestow  wealth  according  to  his  little  ideas  upon  the 
one  creature  who  loved  Pons,  that  he  heard  not  a  word  of 
lawsuit  nor  compromise. 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  reading  a  clerk  came  into  the 
private  office  to  speak  to  his  employer.  "There  is  a  man 
here,  sir,  who  wishes  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Schmucke,"  said 
he. 

The  notary  looked  at  Fraisier,  and,  taking  his  cue  from 
him,  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Never  disturb  us  when  we  are  signing  documents.  Just 
ask  his  name — is  it  a  man  or  a  gentleman  ?    Is  he  a  creditor?" 

The  clerk  went  and  returned.  "He  insists  that  he  must 
speak  to  Monsieur  Schmucke." 

"His  name?" 

"  His  name  is  Topinard,  he  says." 

"  I  will  go  out  to  him.  Sign  without  disturbing  yourself," 
said  Gaudissart,  addressing  Schmucke.  "  Make  an  end  of  it ; 
I  will  find  out  what  he  wants  with  us." 

Gaudissart  understood  Fraisier  ;  both  scented  danger. 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?  "  Gaudissart  began.  "  So  you  have 
no  mind  to  be  cashier  at  the  theatre?  Discretion  is  a  cashier's 
first  recommendation." 

"Sir " 

"Just  mind  your  own  business;  you  will  never  be  anything 
if  you  meddle  in  other  people's  affairs." 


COUSIN  PONS.  423 

"Sir,  I  cannot  eat  bread  if  every  mouthful  of  it  is  to  stick 
in  my  throat.  Monsieur  Schmucke  !  Oh,  Schmucke  !  "  he 
shouted  aloud. 

Schmucke  came  out  at  the  sound  of  Topinard's  voice.  He 
had  just  signed.     He  held  the  money  in  his  hand. 

*' Thees  ees  for  die  liddle  German  maiden  und  for  you," 
he  said. 

"Oh  !  my  dear  Monsieur  Schmucke,  you  have  given  away 
your  wealth  to  inhuman  wretches,  to  people  who  are  trying  to 
take  away  your  good  name.  I  took  this  paper  to  a  good  man, 
an  attorney  who  knows  this  Fraisier,  and  he  says  that  you 
ought  to  punish  such  wickedness;  you  ought  to  let  them  sum- 
mon you  and  leave  them  to  get  out  of  it.  Read  this,"  and 
Schmucke's  imprudent  friend  held  out  the  summons  delivered 
in  the  Cite  Bordin. 

Standing  in  the  notary's  gateway,  Sclimucke  read  the  docu- 
ment, saw  the  imputations  made  against  him,  and,  all  ignorant 
as  he  was  of  the  amenities  of  the  law,  the  blow  was  deadly. 
The  little  grain  of  sand  stopped  his  heart's  beating.  Topi- 
nard  caught  him  in  his  arms,  hailed  a  passing  cab,  and  put 
the  poor  German  into  it.  He  was  suffering  from  congestion 
of  the  brain  ;  his  eyes  were  dim,  his  head  was  throbbing,  but 
he  had  enough  strength  left  to  put  the  money  into  Topinard's 
hands. 

Schmucke  rallied  from  the  first  attack,  but  he  never  recov- 
ered consciousness,  and  refused  to  eat.  Ten  davs  afterward 
he  died  without  a  complaint ;  to  the  last  he  had  not  spoken  a 
word.  Mme.  Topinard  nursed  him,  and  Topinard  laid  him 
by  Pons'  side.  It  was  an  obscure  funeral  ;  Topinard  was  the 
only  mourner  who  followed  the  son  of  Germany  to  his  last 
resting-place. 

Fraisier,  now  a  justice  of  the  peace,  is  very  intimate  with 
the  president's  family,  and  much  valued  by  the  presidente. 
She  could  not  think  of  allowing  him  to  marry  "  that  girl  of 
Tabareau's,"   and  promises   infinitely  better   things  for   the 


424  THE  POOR   PARENTS. 

clever  man  to  whom  she  considers  that  she  owes  not  merely 
the  pasture-land  and  the  English  cottage  at  Marville,  but  also 
the  president's  seat  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  for  M.  le 
President  was  returned  at  the  general  election  in  1846. 

Every  one,  no  doubt,  wishes  to  know  what  became  of  the 
heroine  of  a  story  only  too  veracious  in  its  details  ;  a  chronicle 
which,  taken  with  its  twin  sister  the  preceding  volume,  proves 
that  Character  is  the  great  social  force.  You,  O  amateurs, 
connoisseurs,  and  dealers,  will  guess  at  once  that  Pons'  collec- 
tion is  now  in  question.  Wherefore  it  will  suffice  if  we  are 
present  during  a  conversation  that  took  place  only  a  few  days 
ago  in  Count  Popinot's  house.  He  was  showing  his  splendid 
collection  to  some  visitors. 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte,  you  possess  treasures  indeed,"  re- 
marked a  distinguished  foreigner. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  pictures,  nobody  can  hope  to  rival  an  obscure 
collector,  one  Elie  Magus,  a  Jew,  an  old  monomaniac,  the 
prince  of  picture-lovers,"  the  count  replied  modestly.  "And 
when  I  say  nobody,  I  do  not  speak  of  Paris  only,  but  of  all 
Europe.  When  the  old  Croesus  dies,  France  ought  to  spare 
seven  or  eight  millions  of  francs  to  buy  the  gallery.  For  curi- 
osities, my  collection  is  good  enough  to  be  talked  about " 

"  But  how,  busy  as  you  are,  and  with  a  fortune  so  honestly 
earned  in  the  first  instance  in  business " 

"  In  the  drug  business,"  broke  in  Popinot ;  "  you  ask  how 
I  can  continue  to  interest  myself  in  things  that  are  a  drug  in 
the  market " 

"No,"  returned  the  foreign  visitor,  "  no,  but  how  do  you 
find  time  to  collect?  The  curiosities  do  not  come  to  find 
you." 

"My  father-in-law  owned  the  nucleus  of  the  collection," 
said  the  young  Vicomtesse  ;  "  he  loved  the  arts  and  beautiful 
work,  but  most  of  his  treasures  came  to  him  through  me." 

"Through  you,  madame  ?  So  young  I  and  yet  have  you 
such  vices  as  this?"  asked  a  Russian  prince. 


COUSIN  POxVS.  425 

Russians  are  by  nature  imitative  ;  imitative  indeed  to  such 
an  extent  that  the  diseases  of  civilization  break  out  among 
them  in  epidemics.  The  bric-a-brac  mania  had  appeared  in 
an  acute  form  in  St.  Peterburg,  and  the  Russians  caused  such  a 
rise  of  prices  in  the  "art  line,"  as  Remonencq  would  say, 
that  collections  became  impossible.  The  prince  who  spoke 
had  come  to  Paris  solely  to  buy  bric-a-brac. 

"The  treasures  came  to  me,  prince,  on  the  death  of  a 
cousin.  He  was  very  fond  of  me,"  added  the  Vicomtesse  Popi- 
not,  "  and  he  had  spent  some  forty-odd  years  since  1805  in 
picking  up  these  masterpieces  everywhere,  but  more  especially 
in  Italy " 

"  And  what  was  his  name?"  inquired  the  English  lord. 

"  Pons,"  said  President  Camusot. 

"A  charming  man  he  was,"  piped  the  presidente  in  her 
thin,  flute  tones,  "  very  clever,  very  eccentric,  and  yet  very 
good-hearted.  This  fan  that  you  admire  once  belonged  to 
Madame  de  Pompadour ;  he  gave  it  to  me  one  morning  with 
a  pretty  speech  which  you  must  permit  me  not  to  repeat," 
and  she  glanced  at  her  daughter. 

"  Madame  la  Vicomtesse,  tell  us  the  pretty  speech,"  begged 
the  Russian  prince. 

"  The  speech  was  as  pretty  as  the  fan,"  returned  the  vicom- 
tesse, who  brought  out  the  stereotyped  remark  on  all  occasions. 
"  He  told  my  mother  that  it  was  quite  time  that  it  should  pass 
from  the  hands  of  vice  into  those  of  virtue." 

The  English  lord  looked  at  Mme.  de  Marville  with  an  air 
of  doubt  not  a  little  gratifying  to  so  withered  a  woman. 

"  He  used  to  dine  at  our  house  two  or  three  times  a  week," 
she  said  ;  "  he  was  so  fond  of  us  !  AVe  could  appreciate  him, 
and  artists  like  the  society  of  those  who  relish  their  wit.  My 
husband  was,  beside,  his  one  surviving  relative.  So  when, 
quite  unexpectedly.  Monsieur  de  Marville  came  into  the  prop- 
erty. Monsieur  le  Comte  preferred  to  take  over  the  whole 
collection  to  save  it  from  a  sale  by  auction  ;  and  we  ourselves 


426  THE   POOR   PARENTS. 

much  preferred  to  dispose  of  it  in  that  way,  for  it  would  have 
been  so  painful  to  us  to  see  the  beautiful  things,  in  which  our 
dear  cousin  was  so  much  interested,  all  scattered  abroad. 
Elie  Magus  valued  them,  and  in  that  way  I  became  possessed 
of  the  cottage  that  your  uncle  built,  and  I  hope  you  will  do 
us  the  honor  of  coming  to  see  us  there." 

Gaudissart's  theatre  passed  into  other  hands  a  year  ago, 
but  M.  Topinard  is  still  the  cashier.  M.  Topinard,  however, 
has  grown  gloomy  and  misanthropic;  he  says  little.  People 
think  that  he  has  something  on  his  conscience.  Wags  at  the 
theatre  suggest  that  his  gloom  dates  from  his  marriage  with 
Lolotte.  Honest  Topinard  starts  whenever  he  hears  Fraisier's 
name  mentioned.  Some  people  may  think  it  strange  that  the 
one  nature  worthy  of  Pons  and  Schmucke  should  be  found  on 
the  third  floor  beneath  the  stage  of  a  boulevard  theatre. 

Mme.  Remonencq,  much  impressed  with  Mrae.  Fontaine's 
prediction,  declines  to  retire  to  the  country.  She  is  still 
living  in  her  splendid  store  on  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine, 
but  she  is  a  widow  now  for  the  second  time.  Remonencq, 
in  fact,  by  the  terms  of  the  marriage-contract,  settled  the  prop- 
erty upon  the  survivor,  and  left  a  little  glass  of  vitriol  about 
for  his  wife  to  drink  by  mistake ;  but  his  wife,  with  the  very 
best  intentions,  put  the  glass  elsewhere,  and  Remonencq 
swallowed  the  draught  himself.  The  rascal's  appropriate  end 
vindicates  Providence,  as  well  as  the  chronicler  of  manners, 
who  is  sometimes  accused  of  neglect  on  this  head,  perhaps, 
because  Providence  has  been  so  overworked  by  playwrights  of 
late. 

Pardon  the  transcriber's  errors. 


FINIS. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAY  2  7  195* 
JUN  3  0  1953 


8     13^ 

FEC'D  LD-URl 

i  SEP2  4J1973 


"'"•''    9  1979 

FfCD  CD-URB 

...  31  1979 


nCT4 


n  iri.MT?' 


'  ■- 1  r",  '■ 


Form  rj9-10(ji-6,'52(A1855)444 


AA    000  571567    7 


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